PUNCH:  THE  IMMORTAL  LIAR 


BOOKS  BY  CONRAD  AlKEN 

EARTH   TRIUMPHANT 

TURNS  AND   MOVIES 

THE   JIG   OF   FORSLIN 

NOCTURNE     OF    REMEMBERED     SPRING 

THE  CHARNEL  ROSE 

THE  HOUSE  OF  DUST 

SCEPTICISMS 

PUNCH:  THE  IMMORTAL  LIAR 


PUNCH:  THE  IMMORTAL  LIAR 

DOCUMENTS  IN  HIS  HISTORY 
By  CONRAD  AIKEN 


NEW  YORK  ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF  1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF   AMEWCA 


IS  P8 
HZ  I 
MAIM 


TO  JESSIE 


439187 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.    PUNCH:  THE  IMMORTAL  LIAR 

Two  Old  Men  Who  Remembered  Punch  3 
What  Punch  Told  Them  12 
What  Polly  Once  Confessed  38 
How  He  Died  44 

PART  II.    MOUNTEBANK  CARVES  His  PUPPET  OF  WOOD 

He  Conceives  His  Puppet  to  be  Struggling  with  a  Net  49 

He  Imagines  That  His  Puppet  Has  a  Dark  Dream  and 
Hears  Voices  70 

EPILOGUE 

Mountebank  Feels  the  Strings  at  His  Heart  77 


PART  I 
PUNCH:  THE  IMMORTAL  LIAR 


TWO  OLD  MEN  WHO  REMEMBERED  PUNCH 
1 

Do  I  remember  Punch? — Listen  —  I'll  tell  you. 

I  am  an  old  man  now,  but  I  remember, 

I  saw  him  in  the  flesh.     My,  my,  what  flesh!   .  .  . 

I  can  still  see  him  shut  his  eyes  to  sing, — 

As  he  did  always  when  he'd  drunk  too  much!  .  .  . 

He  was  the  splendidest  fool  I  ever  knew. 

His  great  red  nose  was  bent  down  like  an  ogre's, 
His  mouth  was  wide,  he  was  half-bald,  half-grey, 
His  legs  were  bandy.  .  .  .  Every  woman  in  town 
Had  slapped  his  face, —  although,  to  hear  him  talk, 
You'd  think  he'd  kissed  them  all !     He  was  a  coward, 
We  kicked  him,  spat  upon  him,  whipped  him,  cursed  him, 
And  threw  him  out  of  doors.  .  .  .  And  yet,  we  liked  him. 

What  lies  he  told!     He  had  a  genius  for  it. 

He  killed  his  wife,  hopped  upon  Sheba's  knee, 

Walked  and  talked  with  devils,  raped  and  murdered  .  .  . 

Why  did  we  listen  to  him!  .  .  .  Why  did  we  like  him!  .  . 

Well,  I  don't  know.     Say  rather  that  we  loved  him  — 

There  was  a  something  noble  about  the  man. 

Somehow,  though  small,  he  cast  an  enormous  shadow. 

The  night  before  he  died,  we  carried  him  home. 

He  stopped  to  lean  on  the  churchyard  wall  a  moment, 

And  stared  at  the  tower  clock.     "  Listen !  "  he  said. 

3 


"  This  heart  that  beats  here, —  underneath  my  hand, — 
All  of  the  clocks  in  the  world  keep  time  with  it! 
Even  the  stars  in  the  sky,  the  sun  and  planets, 
Measure  their  time  by  me!  — I  am  the  centre!  " 
We  thrust  him  into  his  house.  ...  He  fell  down  laughing 

Yes,  there  was  something  noble  about  the  man. 
He  was  half  mad,  no  doubt,  a  sneak,  a  villain: 
And  yet,  somehow,  the  world  seemed  greater  for  him; 
Seemed  smaller  when  he  died. 


So  that's  your  story,  is  it?  — Well,  here's  mine! 
Draw  close  your  coats  about  you,  cross  yourselves  — 
And  shut  the  door!     There's  a  queer  wind  tonight 
Howling  as  if  some  ghost  were  riding  on  it  — 
Whose  ghost,  God  knows!     And  what  I've  got  to  tell  you 
Might  crack  the  earth,  and  set  the  devil  talking. 
See  the  blue  lightning  twinkle  on  that  window! 
Look  at  the  ashes  dancing  on  that  hearth! 
Old  Nick  is  riding  trees,  and  at  this  instant  — 
Don't  look!  — may  have  his  red  eye  at  the  keyhole. 
You  say:  this  Punch  had  something  noble  in  him. 
Noble!     Good  God!     Are  words  to  have  no  meanings? 
Christ  was  a  scoundrel  then,  and  thieves  are  angels! 
NoblM     There's  rain  on  the  window  for  your  answer, 
Old  Nick's  tattoo  of  talons.     Look  outside, 
You'll  see  him  spurt  off  like  a  ball  of  fire, 
You'll  hear  a  peal  of  laughter,  a  clap  of  thunder, 
And  smoke  will  sting  your  eyes.     If  there  was  ever 
A  viler  villain  walked  this  fatal  earth 

—  4  — 


Tell  me  his  name!     Mischief  he  was  in  flesh, 
Mischief  he  left  behind  him  in  his  seed, 
And  ruins  rotting  where  he  found  his  pleasure. 
You  say  he  lied.     You  say  his  crimes  were  fables. 
But  were  they?     Where  is  Judy?     Dead  and  festering, 
With  a  gravestone  fallen  down  above  her  carrion. 
Tell  me, —  what  woman  was  there  in  this  village 
He  didn't  try  to  kiss?     Not  one,  you  know  it; 
And  if  he  failed  that  wasn't  his  fault,  surely. 
Who'll  put  his  beer  down,  now,  and  swear  on  the  Bible 
He  ever  knew  a  good  deed  done  by  Punch?  .  .  . 
Ah!  there's  rain  on  the  window  for  your  answer. 

Now,  then, —  you'll  say,  perhaps,  I'm  superstitious. 
But  am  I?  .  .  .  Have  I  ever  looked  for  signs?  .  .  . 
You  know  me;  and  you  know  I'm  no  old  woman 
Who  squints  in  a  cup  of  tea-leaves  for  a  portent. 
But  this  I  swear,  and  this  I'll  swear  till  doomsday, — 
More  things  go  on  about  us  on  this  earth 
Than  flesh  can  know  of.     Trees  have  devils  in  them, 
Ghosts  go  walking  out  on  the  waves  of  the  air 
And  sing  in  the  belfry  when  the  bells  are  tolling. 
What  else  are  owls  and  bats  but  evil  spirits  — 
Why  do  they  haunt  the  churchyard  if  they're  not? 
No,  I'm  not  superstitious,  more  than  any 
Who  use  their  senses;  but  I'll  tell  you  this; 
The  man  we  knew  as  Punch  was  no  mere  mortal. 

Who  was  he?  ...  Wait.     I'll  tell  you.     But  before, 
I've  got  three  questions  for  you  you  can't  answer ! 
Who  saw  Punch  come  to  town?     Who  was  his  father? 
Where  did  he  come  from?  .  .  .  Ah!     You  see;  he's  human, 
(Or  so  you'd  say,)  yet  no  one  ever  knew 

—  5  — 


Just  who  he  was,  or  what  his  business  was! 
Presto !  and  here  he  stood  with  a  purse  of  money, 
Out  of  a  cloud,  you  might  say, —  dropped  from  heaven. 
Again  I  say, —  who  saw  Punch  come  to  town?  .  .  . 
One  man!     One  man  alone  of  all  this  village 
Saw  how  he  came.     Or  did  he?     That's  the  question! 
Old  Crabbe  it  was  —  dead  now  these  fifteen  years  — 
And  he  it  was  who  told  me.  ...  It  was  spring, 
And  Crabbe,  who  was  still  a  boy,  was  in  the  orchard 
Beyond  the  churchyard  —  Gardy  Gleason's  orchard. 
He  climbed  the  wall  that  joins  the  churchyard  wall 
And  skirts  the  road,  and  sat  there,  legs  a-dangling, 
To  peel  a  stick.     Now  then,  you  know  that  wall  — 
You've  climbed  it  after  Gardy  Gleason's  apples; 
And  you,  as  well  as  I,  know  how  the  road 
Dips  down  without  a  curve  along  the  valley 
A  mile  and  more.  .  .  .  Well,  Crabbe  was  whittling  there, 
And  looking  down  the  road.     And  not  a  soul 
Was  in  it:  he  was  sure,  for  he  was  watching 
To  see  his  father's  horse  come  round  the  turn. 
Bare  as  your  hand!     A  warm  spring  day,  no  clouds, 
Bees  in  the  apple-blossoms  over  his  head, 
And  the  sun  behind  his  back.     He  saw  his  shadow 
Slanting  across  the  road,  and  almost  reaching 
The  other  wall;  a  thin  high-shouldered  shadow  — 
And  started,  as  boys  will,  to  fling  his  arms, 
To  see  the  shadow  wave.  .  .  .  And  then,  of  a  sudden, 
Without  a  squeak  or  sound,  another  shadow 
Slanted  across  the  road  and  fell  on  the  wall 
Beyond  his  own, —  and  staid  there.  .  .  .  Arms  in  the  air, 
Young  Crabbe  went  stiff  with  fright;  he  turned  his  head 
And  saw  in  the  road,  alone  before  him, —  Punch! 
Punch,  with  a  bag  and  stick  across  one  shoulder  — 

—  6  — 


And  a  red  grin  on  his  face!  .  .  . 

Well  —  that  was  queer : 

And  young  Crabbe  felt  his  entrails  coiling  coldly. 
Where  had  he  come  from  —  slid  down  out  of  the  air?  .  .  . 
Popped  from  the  ground?  .  .  .  But  just  as  he  was  thinking 
That  after  all  the  fellow  might  have  found 
The  time  to  steal  upon  him, —  while  he  waved 
His  arms  and  shadows  there, —  just  then  he  noticed 
A  thing  that  made  his  hair  stand  up  and  creep: 
The  road,  of  course,  was  dusty  at  that  season, — 
And  Punch's  boots  showed  not  a  speck  of  dust  .  .  . 
This  was  enough !     He  slid  back  over  the  wall 
And  took  the  short-cut  home. 

So  that's  the  first  count. 

The  fellow  suddenly  comes  to  us  from  nowhere: 
Breaks  from  the  air  as  a  fish  might  breach  the  sea. 
Does  flesh  do  things  like  that?     Not  human  flesh! 
Only  the  flesh  of  angels  or  of  devils, 
Which,  having  a  look  of  flesh,  yet,  lighter  than  air, 
Burns  at  the  touch  and  blows  in  a  wind  like  fire; 
Or,  seen  at  dusk,  takes  on  a  glow  like  phosphor  .  .  . 
He  comes  to  us  from  nowhere;  and  he  tells  us 
Of  inquisitions,  demons,  saints,  and  hangmen. 
Who  ever  heard  —  in  our  time  —  of  such  things? 
Where  was  this  village  that  he  boasted  of  — 
Who  ever  heard  him  name  it?  — And  these  people; 
These  constables  and  Ketches  that  he  murdered 
So  humorously,  to  make  so  sweet  a  story;  — 
Where  are  they  buried?  .  .  .  Ah, —  you  say, —  he  lied. 
And  so  he  did.     He  lied, —  when  he  was  drunk, — 
Even  of  Polly  Prim,  whom  we  all  knew  .  .  . 
But  what  does  that  prove?     Nothing  —  no,  sir,  nothing! 


For  was  he  always  lying?  — That's  the  question!  .  .  . 

Consider,  then.  ...  A  mystery  comes  among  us, 

Ugly  and  vile  beyond  all  human  knowledge, 

A  walking  vice;  he  lies,  seduces,  steals, 

Gets  roaring  drunk,  and  leads  our  youth  to  mischief. 

The  village  reeks  with  him.     Corruption  rules  us. 

Lechery  shakes  our  walls,  the  women  snicker, 

The     young     men     brawl.  .  .  .  What's     this  —  a     sort     of 

angel?  .  .  . 

And  here  are  portents,  too !   .  .  .  A  rain  like  blood, — 
And  the  laundry  reddens  where  it  dries  on  the  walls; 
Voices  are  heard;  a  curious  sound  of  singing 
Thrills  from  the  church  at  night;  and  in  the  morning 
A  pig  is  dead  on  the  altar  with  its  throat  cut. 
The  same  night  Janet  Crowe  has  had  a  vision : 
The  door  breaks  in,  the  Devil  comes  in  roaring 
With  a  huge  knife  in  his  hands,  seizes  her  hair, 
And  drags  her  screaming.  .  .  .  When  she  wakes  she's  lying 
Naked  upon  the  floor;  the  door's  wide  open; 
Her  right  hand's  paralysed  for  three  days  after  .  .  . 
Next  Judy's  dead,  and  no  one  knows  just  how. 
Punch  finds  her  on  the  kitchen  floor,  he  says, — 
Her  hair  spread  out,  and  poison  on  her  lips. 
Well,  did  she  kill  herself, —  or  was  she  murdered? 
Polly,  we  know,  maintains  she  killed  herself  — 
And  Punch  says  she  was  murdered.     Who  was  right? 
This  much  we  know:  we  couldn't  prove  him  guilty, 
Nor,  for  that  matter,  find  a  trace  of  poison; 
A  darkness  fell  about  her;  and  a  silence 
Which  only  owl's  or  devil's  eyes  could  see  through  .  .  . 
"Devils!  "  —  Think  hard  about  that  word  a  minute; 
Conjure  these  mysteries  and  freaks  before  you, 
And  then  recall  how  strangely  and  how  often 

—  8  — 


It  sounded  from  a  drunken  tongue  we  knew. 

Who  was  it,  in  the  grass  on  Mory's  hill, 

Saw  Satan  walking  there  with  his  tail  about  him 

And  Faustus  at  his  side?  .  .  .  Who  was  it  told  us 

How  he  had  stoned  this  devil  and  his  clerk 

And  sent  them  capering  mistily  in  the  sunlight 

Through  buttercup  and  dogrose?  .  .  .  Last, —  who  was  it 

Mounted  the  wind  and  stepped  through  time  and  space 

To  talk  with  Sheba,  Solomon,  even  Judas, 

And  all  in  fact  —  remark  this  well  —  save  Christ? 

Ah!     Now  we're  coming  to  it.     You  begin 

To  see  the  dark  conclusion  I've  been  hinting! 

And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  at  last  convinced  me. 

Draw  close  your  coats  about  you!     Cross  yourselves! 

Outside  the  window,  there,  in  the  rain  and  lightning, 

Hangs  some  one  else  who  listens  to  this  story. 

I  had  a  dream :     I  dreamed  it  three  times  over. 

The  first  time  was  the  night  that  Punch  lay  dying; 

The  second  time,  the  day  we  found  him  dead 

With  his  feet  against  his  door,  and  buried  him; 

The  third  time  when  a  year  had  passed.     I  dreamed 

A  devil  stood  in  the  pulpit  of  our  church 

With  a  bible  in  his  hands;  his  face  was  red, 

His  horns  were  glittering  gold,  his  tail,  like  a  serpent, 

Was  mooned  and  striped  with  colours  that  waned  and  waxed, 

His  teeth  were  sharp  as  jewels.     There  he  laughed, 

As  the  bible,  fluttering  open  in  his  hands, 

Turned  to  an  infant's  head,  which  down  he  dashed  .  .  . 

Or  was  it  a  rose,  which  turned  on  the  floor  to  blood?   .  .  . 

We  leapt  in  horror,  and  ran  towards  him  shouting, 

We  chased  him  over  the  pews  and  down  the  stairs, 

And  into  the  vault;  and  there,  in  the  darkest  corner 


We  beat  him  down  with  sticks,  we  stoned  and  kicked  him 

And  trampled  on  him,  until  at  last,  as  snakes  do, 

He  quivered, —  only  a  little, —  in  seeming  death. 

We  thrust  his  body,  then,  with  the  plashy  tail 

Wound  twice  about  his  belly,  into  a  coffin, 

And  carried  it  to  the  graveyard;  it  was  raining; 

And  some  one  cried  aloud  to  us  in  the  darkness 

"  Bury  him  now  in  holy  ground ;  for  then 

His  soul  will  wither  and  have  no  power  to  harm!  " 

And  this  we  did.     We  dug  a  grave  in  haste 

And  tumbled  the  coffin  in,  and  heaped  it  over 

With  mud  and  stones.     The  rain  lashed  down  upon  us; 

And  some  one  cried  aloud  to  us  in  the  darkness 

"  Drive  now  a  cross  of  wood  in  the  earth  above  him 

And  blast  his  soul."     And  so  we  made  a  cross 

And  hammered  it  into  the  loosened  earth  with  shovels. 

But  at  the  third  stroke  suddenly  came  a  cry, 

The  wet  earth  flashed  and  opened,  the  coffin  burst, 

The  devil  leapt  before  us,  thumbed  his  nose, 

And  laughing,  with  a  low  sound  like  boulders  falling 

Or  far-off  thunder,  vanished  into  the  rain. 

We  looked  at  the  grave,  and  saw  the  earth  heal  over 

Before  our  very  eyes  .  .  .  roots,  grass,  and  all.  .  .  . 

Three  times  I  dreamed  this  dream ;  —  and  from  the  third, 
Waking  in  time,  on  such  a  night  as  this 
With  large  rain  plashing  on  the  walls  and  windows 
And  the  chimney  gulping  wind,  I  suddenly  saw 
The  meaning  of  my  dream;  I  pulled  my  clothes  on 
And  took  my  spade  and  lantern  and  went  out 
Into  the  darkness.     Rain  and  clouds  like  smoke 
Flew  past  the  lantern;  dark  were  all  the  houses; 
The  broken  weather-vane  on  the  church  was  clinking, 

—  10  — 


The  churchyard  gate  groaned  loudly  as  it  opened, 

And  the  oak-tree  buzzed  in  the  wind.     I  raised  the  lantern, 

And  saw  the  tall  white  pyramid  of  marble 

That's  next  to  Punch's  grave.     By  this  I  set 

The  lantern  down  on  the  grass;  and  took  my  spade 

And  dug.     The  wet  earth  cut  like  cheese.     In  no  time 

I'd  gone  six  feet.     I  held  the  lantern  up 

And  looked  down  into  the  hole  —  and  there  was  nothing. 

Well,  then  —  I  thought  perhaps  I'd  been  mistaken — : 

Dug  to  one  side.     I  took  the  spade  again 

And  dug  two  feet  to  the  right,  two  feet  to  the  left, — 

Then  lengthened  it.     And  what  I  found  was  —  nothing ! 

No  trace!  — no  trace  of  coffin  or  of  bones! 

Only  the  rainy  roots  ...  I  filled  the  grave 

And  went  back  home:  and  lay  awake  all  night 

Thinking  about  it.     When  the  morning  came, — 

I  don't  know  what  it  was  got  into  my  head, — 

I  sneaked  back  into  the  churchyard  just  for  luck  — 

To  see  if  I'd  got  the  sods  on  straight,  and  rake 

The  dirt  away.     And  what  do  you  think  I  saw? 

That  grave  was  just  as  if  I'd  never  dug  there! 

Healed  over  —  like  the  grave  I  saw  in  the  dream!  .  .  . 

Now  then,  you,  over  there!  you  say  this  Punch 
Had  something  noble  in  him;  tell  me,  will  you  — 
What  kind  of  a  man  is  this,  who  comes  from  nowhere, 
Runs  through  the  town  like  fire,  and  when  he's  buried 
Skips  from  the  grave,  and  takes  his  coffin  with  him! 
Angel  or  devil,  maybe,  but  no  mortal  — 
Nor  angel,  either!     And  I  make  no  riddles. 
Believe  or  not,  that's  what  I  saw.     You've  only 
To  take  a  spade,  and  dig,  to  prove  me  wrong.  .  .  . 

And  it's  no  sacrilege  to  dig  for  devils. 


WHAT  PUNCH  TOLD  THEM 

Punch  in  a  beer-house,  drinking  beer, 
Booms  with  his  voice  so  that  all  may  hear, 
Bangs  on  the  table  with  a  red-haired  fist, 
Writhes  in  his  chair  with  a  hump-backed  twist, 
Leers  at  his  huge  nose,  in  the  glass, 
And  then  proclaims,  in  a  voice  of  brass: 
Let  all  who  would  prosper  and  be  free 
Mark  my  words  and  listen  to  me! 
Call  me  a  hunchback?  call  me  a  clown? 
I  turned  the  universe  upside  down! 
And  where  is  the  law  or  love  or  chain 
That  can't  be  broken  by  nerve  or  brain? 

Of  all  my  troubles-my-wife  was  first! 
If  once  I  loved  her,  at  last  I  cursed ! 
I  stole  her  out  of  her  father's  house, 
Kissed  her,  made  her  my  lawful  spouse, — 
And  loved  her,  too,  for  a  certain  season  .  .  . 
And  where's  the  woman  who  loves  in  reason? 
She  dogged  me  up;  she  dogged  me  down; 
She  tracked  my  footsteps  through  the  town; 
Kissed  me,  clung  to  me;  asked  for  more; 
'  Punch,  do  you  love  me?  ' — till  I  swore 
I'd  break  her  neck!     I'd  fling  her  away! 
Or  sail  to  a  foreign  land  and  stay  .  .  . 
You've  all  got  wives  —  now  listen  to  me, 
Learn  how  a  man  can  go  scot  free! 

—  12  — 


Did  I  slit  her  gorge  with  a  carving-knife  — 

Offer  the  hangman's  noose  my  life? 

Not  Punch !  —  There  are  ways  and  ways  to  kill,- 

Some  take  courage  and  some  take  skill  .  .  . 

Poor  Judy's  dead  —  and  the  constables  think 

She  fell  downstairs  —  but  here,  I  wink! 

Yes,  sirs,  there's  ways  and  ways  of  dying, 

Some  with  wailing  and  some  with  crying; 

But  some  of  us  die  in  the  dead  of  night 

With  never  a  sound  in  the  candlelight. 

They  stretched  her  out  in  a  coffin  small, 

They  hid  the  coffin  under  a  pall, 

And  the  mourners  came  all  dressed  in  black, 

Shouldered  it,  each  with  bending  back, 

And  carried  it  out.  ...  I  sat  apart 

And  wiped  my  eyes  and  broke  my  heart  — 

Oh,  yes !  and  each  '  Poor  Punch !  '  he  said 

As  he  saw  me  weep  and  bow  my  head. 

Well,  sirs,  it  may  seem  strange  to  you 
But  I  was  sad,  for  a  day  or  two  — 
I  thought  of  Judy  and  all  she'd  been, 
How  young  she  was,  and  then  my  sin 
Came  in  a  nightmare  to  my  brain 
And  shook  my  hand  with  a  palsy  pain. 
Superstition  be  damned !  said  I  — 
There's  no  use  moping  —  we  all  must  die  — 
And  what  does  it  matter  how  it's  done? 
Weep  in  roses,  or  hang  in  fun! 
And  so  it  happened,  and  not  long  after, 
Strutting  around  with  a  crooked  laughter, 
I  met  this  girl  named  Polly  Prim, 
Dark  and  devilish,  red-lipped,  slim, 

—  13  — 


A  virgin  harlot,  the  fame  of  the  place, 
Because  no  man  had  kissed  her  face. 
Now  I'm  not  handsome,  as  you  can  see, 
But  I've  a  power  with  girls  in  me  — 
I  take  no  credit,  it's  something  given, 
Sent  to  the  womb  hy  hell  or  heaven  — 
A  trick,  a  knack,  a  stab  of  the  eye, 
A  twist  of  the  lip,  malicious,  sly, 
Soft  in  persuasion,  bold  in  the  act  — 
No  nut's  so  hard  that  it  can't  be  cracked! 
You  wouldn't  think,  with  a  nose  like  mine, 
Purple  and  gorgeous  with  too  much  wine, 
And  a  bony  hump  like  a  pedlar's  pack 
Pushing  the  coat  up  off  my  back, 
You  wouldn't  think  that  a  man  like  this, 
Short  of  murder,  could  steal  a  kiss  .  .  . 
And  yet  I  swear,  by  the  devil's  dame, 
There's  many  a  girl  I've  called  by  name, 
And  when  I  called,  by  gad,  she  came! 

This  Polly,  well,  she  was  like  them  all  — 
Ripe  red  fruit  and  ready  to  fall; 
Love  her  —  me?     God  bless  you,  no! 
But  nevertheless  I  told  her  so  — 
I  smiled  to  her  —  whispered,  in  the  street, 
Two  words  —  enough!  we  arranged  to  meet 
At  the  willow  tree  by  the  churchyard  wall 
As  soon  as  the  proper  dark  should  fall. 
Well,  I  was  late  —  I  kept  her  waiting  — 
Nothing  better  than  a  bit  of  baiting  — 
And  she  was  vexed  and  started  to  go. 
'  Polly,'  said  I,  '  I  love  you  so! 
You  won't  desert  me, —  now  we've  started,— 

—  14  — 


And  leave  your  poor  Punch  broken-hearted?  .  .  . 

Now  look!     By  Judy's  green  grave  there 

There's  none  so  pretty  as  you,  I  swear !  '  — 

At  this  she  trembled  and  clung  to  me 

And  rose  tip-toe  by  the  wall,  to  see 

Where  Judy's  grave  was  .  .  .  Meanwhile  I 

Pretended,  furtive,  to  wipe  my  eye. 

'  Poor  Punch !  '  she  sighed,  '  your  Judy's  dead  .  .  . 

Did  you  love  her  much?  '    I  shook  my  head. 

'  Not  half  as  much  as  you,'  I  said  .  .  . 

'  Why  do  you  cry,  then?  '     '  Because  I'm  lonely. 

Polly  I  love  you,  love  you  only.' 

At  this  she  frowned.     '  No  doubt,'  said  she, 

'  You  said  to  her  what  you  say  to  me.' 

She  took  two  steps  toward  the  town, — 

I  caught  her  backward  by  her  gown; 

And  what  do  you  think  I  told  her  then? 

Oh,  there's  no  limit  to  the  wit  of  men! 

I  told  her  straight  if  she'd  be  brave, 

I'd  prove  my  love  by  Judy's  grave. 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  sudden  scare. 

'Come  to  the  grave  —  I'll  kiss  you  there!  ' 

The  night  was  thick.     No  moon  there  was. 
The  wind  made  whickerings  in  the  grass. 
The  willows  tapped  at  the  churchyard  wall 
And  we  saw,  like  ghosts,  the  dead  leaves  fall. 
'  What's  that?  '  said  Polly.     '  Dead  leaves!  '  said  I. 
Close  to  our  heads  a  bat  whizzed  by. 
She  clung  to  my  arm,  her  hand  was  weak, 
She  opened  her  lips  but  could  not  speak. 
I  stooped  and  caught  her  under  the  knees 
And  lifted  her  up,  as  light  as  you  please, 

—  15  — 


Over  the  wall;  but  just  as  I  climbed 

To  the  cold  stone  top  the  church  clock  chimed, 

Then  boomed  the  hour  with  a  thunder-sound: 

And  a  gravestone  keeled  with  a  clap  to  the  ground 

Well,  I'm  not  easily  scared,  but  that, 

Take  my  word  for  it,  knocked  me  flat! 

I've  danced  at  murders,  laughed  at  duels  — 

But  at  this  my  sweat  rolled  off  in  jewels! 

Polly  looked  up  at  the  starless  sky 

And  covered  her  face  and  began  to  cry; 

She  leaned  against  me  and  clung  and  trembled; 

But  I,  though  scared,  of  course  dissembled, — 

I  took  her  arm,  and  led  her  then 

Over  the  weed-wet  tombs  of  men. 

Once,  we  stumbled  upon  a  spade  — 

Thrust  in  the  earth  by  a  vault  new-made; 

Once,  in  the  dark,  I  heard  her  moan 

As  she  touched  with  her  hand  a  dew-cold  stone. 

But  we  came  to  Judy's  grave,  and  there 

I  kissed  her  eyelids,  loosed  her  hair, 

Swore  there  was  no  such  thing  as  sin, — 

And  she,  being  frightened,  soon  gave  in. 

You  know  I'm  honest;  I  won't  pretend 

That  I  wasn't  scared,  nor  recommend, — 

At  least  not  wholly,  to  all, —  such  fashion 

For  most  enjoying  an  evening's  passion. 

For  more  than  once,  at  the  wail  in  the  trees, 

The  heart  in  my  body  seemed  to  freeze; 

And  I  half  expected, —  bless  my  eyes !  — 

To  see  a  ghost  from  the  cold  grass  rise. 

So  much  for  Polly.     I  here  pass  over 
The  days  that  followed, —  days  of  clover! 

—  16  — 


But  all  things  end,  and  the  trouble  came 
When  Polly  died, —  with  me  to  blame. 
There  lived  a  constable  in  that  town, 
An  insolent  bully,  a  red-necked  clown, 
With  small  pig's  eyes  and  stupid  face, 
A  fool,  the  laughing-stock  of  the  place. 
He  hated  me,  as  I  did  him, 
Because  he  loved  this  Polly  Prim  .  .  . 
Why  does  the  good  Lord  make  such  fellows? 
He  rolled  his  head  and  blew  like  a  bellows 
Whenever,  as  often,  he  chanced  to  see, 
On  a  clear  evening,  Polly  and  me 
Walking  together  along  the  lane: 
Upon  my  honour,  it  gave  him  pain!  .  .  . 
And  once,  one  evening,  as  we  lay 
With  much  to  do  and  little  to  say 
In  deep  grass  by  the  churchyard  wall, — 
We  suddenly  heard  a  pebble  fall; 
And  there  he  crept  in  the  darkness,  groping 
From  stone  to  stone  with  loud  steps,  hoping 
To  catch  us  out  .  .  .  How  still  we  kept! 
This  way  and  that  in  the  dark  he  stept, 
Heavily  breathing,  bending,  peering; 
And  when  at  last  he  was  out  of  hearing, 
Lord  how  we  laughed;  and  how  like  flame 
Our  kisses  after  that  fright  became!  — 
Well,  on  the  night  that  Polly  died, 
I  sat  in  the  inn,  alone.     Outside 
The  rain  came  down  in  glassy  sheets, 
I  heard  it  sing  and  seethe  in  the  streets, 
Green  lightning  through  the  windows  flashed, 
Thunder  along  the  treetops  crashed, 
A  shrill  wind  whistled;  and  once  it  seemed 

—  17  — 


I  heard  through  the  wind  a  voice  that  screamed  . 

I  knew  right  well  that  Pol  was  dying, 

I  stopped  my  ears,  but  still  that  crying 

Rang  like  a  nightmare  through  my  brain. 

Then  all  at  once,  through  the  window-pane, 

I  saw  this  constable's  white  face  stare, 

Stare  and  vanish.     I  left  my  chair, 

My  flesh  turned  cold,  for  I  knew  well 

The  news  the  constable  came  to  tell : 

I  knew,  as  well  as  that  light  is  light, 

Murder  had  come  to  town  that  night. 

The  door  flew  open:  in  he  came, 

With  his  mouth  like  wax  and  his  eyes  like  flame. 

'  Good  evening,  officer,'  then  said  I : 

'  Is  it  raining  still  ?  '  —  There  was  no  reply, — 

For  a  breath  or  two;  and  then  he  said 

'  I  suppose  you  know  your  whore  is  dead?  ' — 

He  stared  at  me:     I  stared  at  him  .  .  . 

'  I  suppose  you  allude  to  —  Polly  Prim?  ' 

'Allude?     You  know  damned  well  I  do.' 

'  A  whore  is  a  whore.     What's  that  to  you?  ' 

'  You  know  damned  well  what  it  is  to  me  — 

And  now  you'll  settle  .  .  .'     A  knife  flashed  free, 

Flashed  in  an  arc,  I  ducked,  he  lunged, 

Down  to  the  floor  like  an  ox  he  plunged 

With  me  on  top:     I  caught  his  wrist, 

Snapped  it  sharp  with  a  sudden  twist, 

His  ringers  loosened,  the  knife  fell  out, 

I  caught  the  haft  up,  turned  about, 

And  struck  him  twice.     He  gave  one  moan, 

Clutched  once, —  and  then  lay  still  as  stone. 

Now,  this  was  folly.  .  .  .  I'm  free  to  admit 

—  18  — 


For  once  —  h'm  —  anger  outran  my  wit. 
Murder  will  out!     I  was  straightway  tried 
By  a  jealous  judge,  and  would  have  died 
Had  not  my  cunning  returned  to  me, 
At  the  gallows  foot,  and  set  me  free. 
There  was  a  hangman  there,  poor  wretch, 
A  morbid  soul  by  the  name  of  Ketch  — 
Jack  Ketch;  a  corpse  with  a  slow  green  eye 
That  only  lit  when  he  saw  men  die. 
No  sooner  was  I  condemned,  than  he 
Conceived  a  peculiar  joy  in  me: 
Watched  me,  talked  to  me;  to  and  fro 
Before  my  window  he  would  go, — 
For  ever  touching,  as  he  spoke, 
Hand  to  gullet,  his  little  joke! 
Now,  when  the  day  for  the  hanging  fell, 
He  came  to  the  court  outside  my  cell, 
And  set  up,  under  my  very  eyes, 
The  gallows!   .  .  .  Well,  sirs,  being  wise, 
And  having  pretended,  many  days, 
To  be  a  fool,  I  began  to  praise  .  .  . 
'Oh,  what  a  pretty  tree!  '  said  I, 
And  clapped  my  hands.     He  rolled  one  eye 
With  a  dubious  tilt  toward  me  then 
And  grinned,  and  slouched  away  again. 
Back  he  came,  in  a  whisper's  time, 
With  rope  and  ladder,  and  started  to  climb 
To  the  gallows-top.     At  this  I  ran 
To  the  small  cell-window,  and  began 
To  cry  'Stop,  thief!  — There's  a  thief  out  here! 
Robbing  the  fruit-tree !  '  —  shrill  and  clear 
I  sang  this  out:     Jack  Ketch  spun  round 
And  stared  at  me  with  never  a  sound  .  .  . 

—19  — 


He  looked  at  me  with  a  pitying  look, 
Then  once  or  twice  his  head  he  shook, 
Tapped  his  forehead,  tied  up  his  noose, 
Leaving  it  swinging  large  and  loose, 
Climbed  down,  and  sauntered  off  once  more 
This  time,  when  he  came  back,  he  bore, 
(He  and  the  sheriff,  on  their  heads,) 
A  coffin,  all  lapped  round  with  leads  .  .  . 
'  Aha !  '  I  cried,  with  a  knowing  air ; 
'  The  thieves  have  fetched  a  basket  there !  ' — 
Down  thy  dropped  it  upon  the  stones  — 
Thump!  and  a  shudder  thrilled  my  bones. 

Ketch  came  to  me.     '  Now,  Punch,  step  out !  ' 
4  Oh,  no!  '  cried  I:     *  What's  this  about?  ' 
4  Come  out,  sir,  and  be  hanged !  '  said  he, — 
'  A  pretty  fruit  for  a  pretty  tree!  ' — 

*  Hanged  on  a  tree  —  what's  that?  '  said  I. 

*  Hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  die !  ' 
At  this  I  wept  and  beat  the  stones, 
A  mortal  terror  froze  my  bones; 

I  cried  aloud  as  I  was  led 
To  the  gallows  foot,  already  dead  .  .  . 
Jack  Ketch  began  to  shine  with  glee. 
— '  Put  up  your  pretty  head !  '  said  he  — 
'  Inside  the  noose !  ' —  I  began  to  quake, 
The  rope  came  dangling  like  a  snake, 
I  touched  it,  shivered,  touched  again, 
And  took  it  in  my  hands,  and  then, — 
Once  more  pretending  lack  of  wit, — 
Thrust  up  my  head  —  outside  of  it  ... 

*  Oh,  no !  '  said  Ketch  — '  inside,  inside !  ' 
'  Inside  of  what?  '  —  Again  I  tried, 

—  20  — 


And  failed  again.     At  this  he  swore. 

1  Now,  Punch,  watch  me,  and  try  once  more !  ' 

He  held  the  noose  above  his  crown 

And  then  with  his  two  hands  dropped  it  down,- 

And  quick  as  a  wink  I  hauled  him  high, 

Hauled  him  dangling  against  the  sky. 

Knocked  down  the  sheriff,  turned  and  ran, 

Once  more  a  free  and  happy  man! 

Oh,  Lord,  oh,  Lord,  what  things  I've  done! 
What  tricks  have  played,  what  devil's  fun! 
With  many  a  death  my  hands  are  red; 
Many  a  heart  for  me  has  bled; 
Many  a  tear  has  fallen  for  me 
From  woman's  golden  praying-tree! 
I  will  not  say  I've  not  at  times 
Fled  from  the  darkness  of  my  crimes: 
Sometimes  with  sin  and  sickness  faint, 
On  my  poor  knees  before  some  saint, 
I've  wept  the  blackness  of  my  heart 
And  vowed  a  better  life  to  start  .  .  . 
Yet  I  confess  each  saint  was  human, 
Some  not  too  proud  or  holy  woman, — 
And  not  too  proud  for  earthly  blisses, 
Laughter,  and  moonlight  sport,  and  kisses!  — 
What  girls  have  held  their  hands  to  me! 
What  mouths  to  touch,  what  eyes  to  see! 
Yet  something's  in  me,  something  strange, 
That  drives  me  on  to  seek  for  change; 
I  love  for  a  little  and  not  for  long  — 
And  walk  my  ways  then  with  a  song. 
Some  hold  —  and  I  will  not  deny  — 
It's  not  of  a  mortal  birth  am  I: 

—  21  — 


I  wailed  not  from  a  woman's  womb, 

Nor  am  I  destined  for  the  tomb  .  .  . 

Some  hold,  who've  known  the  things  I've  done, 

I  am  the  devil's  only  son  .  .  . 

But  this  I  doubt  .  .  .  For  once  I  saw 

Old  Nick  himself  with  tail  and  claw, 

On  a  green  hillside  in  the  dusk 

Where  the  wild  roses  were  in  musk. 

With  Doctor  Faustus  by  him  there, — 

Bearing  a  black  book,  pale  as  care, — 

He  paced  they  grass ;  his  eyes  were  coal ; 

He  sought  to  snare  my  immortal  soul. 

It  was,  I  say,  as  evening  fell. 

The  sky  was  green.     A  silver  bell 

Sang  in  the  vale,  and  all  fell  still 

As  Satan  smoked  across  that  hill. 

I  lay  in  the  grass  and  sucked  a  straw 

And  schemed  how  I  might  thwart  the  law, 

When  suddenly,  lifting  up  my  eyes, 

I  saw  him  red  against  the  skies. 

Lord,  what  a  start  it  gave  to  me! 

'  Good  evening,  Mr.  Punch !  '  said  he  ... 

And  at  those  words,  like  whips  of  flame, 

A  dark  cloud  on  that  hillside  came, 

The  shapes  of  rocks  began  to  change, 

The  trees  seemed  sinister  and  strange, 

They  stirred  upon  their  stems,  and  eyes 

Peered  out  from  under  leaves,  and  cries 

Flew  bodiless  upon  that  air 

In  angry  jargon  everywhere; 

And  though  I  looked  a  long  while  down 

I  saw  no  valley,  saw  no  town. 

—  22  — 


Old  Nick  himself  was  nowhere  then, 
Although  I  heard  his  voice  again 
Out  of  the  dark  in  swollen  tones 
Like  fall  of  subterranean  stones: 
'  Consider  well  what  you  shall  see 
And  make  your  bargain  here  with  me!  ' — 
Then  Faustus,  with  a  hand  that  shook, 
Turned  the  great  pages  of  his  book, 
As  if  he  turned  the  stars;  and  first 
A  flood  of  light  around  me  burst; 
And  in  a  valley  by  a  sea 
Bound  by  invisible  veins  to  me 
All  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
A  town  went  glistening  towards  the  sky, 
With  walls  and  towers  and  clustered  trees 
And  swarms  of  men  there  thick  as  bees  .  .  . 
Then  Faustus,  tremulous  with  great  age 
Turned  like  a  sheaf  of  sky  that  page, — 
Valley  and  sea  were  rolled  away  .  .  . 
I  saw  myself,  at  the  end  of  day, 
Climb  up  a  peaked  and  verdant  hill 
Beside  the  twinklings  of  a  rill; 
And  there  a  rock  I  saw;  and  there 
A  voice  was  heard  upon  that  air 
Saying,  'Smite  once!  '  and  in  my  hand 
There  grew,  as  out  of  the  air,  a  wand, 
And  once  I  smote.     And  straight  there  came 
Out  of  the  rock  a  crimson  flame, 
And  out  of  the  flame,  naked  and  fair, 
Venus  herself,  with  golden  hair. 
Upon  white  daisies  there  she  stepped 
And  first  she  shivered,  and  then  she  wept, 
And  then  through  her  hair  she  smiled  at  me, 

—  23  — 


And  sidelong  came;  but  suddenly 
Like  time  itself  that  luminous  page 
Flashed,  and  I  saw  that  archimage 
Spread  out  his  ancient  hands,  and  look 
Grimacing  upward  from  his  book. 
'  You  see  now,  Mr.  Punch,'  he  said, 
'  What  power  we  hold.     Even  the  dead 
Rise  upward  through  the  trammelled  grass 
If  we  command.     All  comes  to  pass, 
As  we  desire!  ' — '  Then  let  me  see,' 
Said  I,  '  if  such  a  thing  can  be !  ' — 
He  turned  his  huge  page  once  again  .  .  . 
And  now  I  saw  a  level  plain 
Far  as  the  eye  could  see,  and  there 
Were  graves  and  tombstones  everywhere. 
And  all  those  graves  and  tombs  were  still, 
Motionless  as  the  dead,  until 
There  rose,  as  out  of  the  earth,  a  cry 
Wavering  slowly  to  the  sky; 
And  suddenly  then,  but  without  sound, 
Those  stones  fell  softly  to  the  ground, 
Millions  of  tombs  divulged  their  dead  .  .  . 
With  clapping  arm  and  pallid  head 
Against  a  sky  of  sunset  flame 
Out  of  the  trammelled  grass  they  came, 
Stirred  like  a  forest  in  the  wind, 
Flourished  their  bones,  till,  somehow  thinned, 
They  seemed  to  blow  along  that  sky 
Like  hosts  of  withered  leaves,  that  fly 
Before  a  stream  of  air;  and  then 
Dwindled,  fell  down,  lay  still  again  .  .  . 
Then  Faustus  said:     "The  time  has  come: 
Sign  here  your  name,  set  here  your  thumb ! 

—  24  — 


All  power  will  Satan  give  to  you 

If,  dying,  you  will  repay  the  due." 

*  My  soul,  you  mean?  ' — '  I  mean  your  soul!  ' 

'  Then  may  my  heart  turn  black  as  coal 

Before  I  serve,  eternally, 

Any  such  tyrant  fiend  as  he!  ' — 

At  this  a  roiling  cloud  of  smoke 

Burst  from  the  grass,  and  Satan  spoke 

And  burned  before  me  on  that  hill. 

4  Surrender  now,'  he  cried,  '  your  will!  ' 

I  reached  to  earth,  and  seized  a  stone, 

And  flung  it  straight;  and,  all  alone, 

Saw  how  he  melted  in  that  air 

With  ancient  Faustus  by  him  there; 

Before  it  struck  I  saw  him  pass ; 

The  stone  fell  softly  to  the  grass  .  .  . 

And  there  in  the  grass  I  sucked  a  straw 

And  schemed  how  I  might  thwart  the  law. 

What  is  it,  in  a  woman's  skin, 
So  surely  drives  a  man  to  sin? 
What  is  it,  in  a  woman's  eyes, 
No  sooner  laughed  in  than  it  dies?  .  .  . 
The  loveliest  lady  in  that  town 
Was  she,  who  wore  a  green  silk  gown, 
The  baker's  wife,  a  haughty  dame, — 
And  it  was  sweet  to  bring  her  shame! 
The  first  time,  when  I  smiled  at  her, 
She  curled  her  lip  and  did  not  stir  .  .  . 
The  second  time,  she  gleamed  at  me 
Through  narrowed  eyes,  amusedly. 
The   third   time  —  she  went   quickly  by, 
But  there  was  laughter  in  her  eye. 

—  25  — 


I  turned  to  look  and  she  turned  too  — 
And  she  was  surely  mine  I  knew. 
The  fourth,  I  met  her  by  a  stream 
Reading  a  book,  but  half  in  dream: 
It  was  an  afternoon  in  spring  — 
We  might  have  heard  the  blackbird  sing. 
She  talked  uneasily,  laughed  at  me, 
Picked  up  her  book,  but  let  me  see 
She  more  than  liked  to  have  me  there: 
And  dropped  her  book  and  primped  her  hair. 
I  leaned  and  caught  one  fingertip, 
Playfully  squeezed  it,  let  it  slip 
Into  the  grass  again  .  .  .  We  lay 
And  breathed  and  smiled,  no  word  to  say. 
The  fifth  —  I  met  her  late  at  night. 
Her  eyes  were  dark  in  lantern-light. 
I  caught  her  arm  and  pressed  it  twice 
And  felt  her  hand  as  cold  as  ice  ... 
'  Pauline,  come  out  to  walk  with  me !  ' 
She  shook  her  head.     '  Oh,  no !  '  said  she  — 
Her  opened  lips  were  grey  with  pain, 
Backward  and  forward  along  the  lane 
She  looked,  afraid  lest  we  be  seen. 
'  Oh,  no !  '  said  she  —  but  did  she  mean 
No  with  her  voice,  yes  with  her  heart?  .  .  . 
I  took  her  hand  as  if  to  start 
And  suddenly  she  began  to  cry, — 
Yet  came  with  me  .  .  .  '  Pauline,'  said  I, 
'  Lift  up  your  mouth !  '     Once  more,  at  this, 
She  shook  her  head  ...  yet  took  my  kiss, 
Shut  both  her  eyes,  clung  hard  to  me, 
And  closer  leaned  with  breast  and  knee  .  .  . 
Above  black  trees  the  moon  swam  high 

—  26  — 


And  small  white  clouds  were  in  the  sky; 
The  lilac-heads  were  sweet;  we  crept 
Past  houses  where  the  good  folk  slept 
Into  a  garden;   a  silver  light 
Flared  through  the  trees,  and  dimly  bright 
Were  pool  and  grass  and  garden  walk; 
And  there  we  sat  to  kiss  and  talk; 
And  there,  beneath  that  poplar  tree, 
She  gave  her  trembling  heart  to  me  ... 
The  sixth,  by  all  odds,  was  the  best  — 
By  this  her  conscience  was  at  rest; 
She  smiled  at  me  as  if  to  say 
4  Do  not  persuade, —  but  have  your  way. ' 
It  was  a  sun-stilled  afternoon, 
The  brook  flashed  fire.     A  sliver  of  moon 
Seemed,  like  an  icy  ghost,  to  melt 
In  warm  blue  sky  .  .  .  Her  heart  I  felt 
Thumping  beneath  my  palm.     We  stayed 
A  sweet  while  there  in  the  poplar  shade: 
She  told  her  secrets,  every  one, 
And  of  her  husband  we  made  fun. 
The  seventh  —  she  began  to  cling, — 
And  fiddled  with  her  wedding  ring  .  .  . 
*  0 !  we  were  monstrous  sinners  both, 
And  we  should  part!  '     But  she  was  loth 
To  come  to  this;  so  clung  to  me 
Almost,  perhaps,  too  tenderly  .  .  . 
The  eighth  and  ninth  —  my  joy  was  mixed. 
Our  kisses  over,  straight  she  fixed 
Her  blue  eyes  on  my  heart,  to  say, 
Since  I  had  led  her  so  astray, 
And  made  her  loathe  her  husband  —  why, 
If  I  should  leave  her  she  would  die! 

—  27  — 


At  this,  you'll  easily  conceive, 
My  one  wish  was,  of  course,  to  leave  .  .  . 
And  though  I  kissed  her,  stroked  her,  smiled, 
Tickled  her  chin,  and  called  her  '  child,' 
Sidelong  she  peered  askance  at  me, 
Her  eyes  grew  dark, — and  she  could  see 
Plainly  as  pebbles  in  the  brook 
The  secret  thoughts  beneath  my  look. 
'What  are  you  thinking,  girl?  '  I  said, — 
Sharply  she  turned  away  her  head, 
Compressed  her  lips,  was  still  a  space 
Put  up  one  hand  against  her  face, — 
And  then  in  a  queer  tone,  forced  and  low, 
Said,  '  Nothing  —  only,  it's  time  to  go.' 
And  then  cold  fury  rose  in  me 
And  we  walked  homeward  silently. 

Well,  sirs,  it  was  that  very  night, 
Brooding  alone  by  candlelight, 
My  queerest  of  all  adventures  came  .  .  , 
I  sat  and  sulked.     My  thoughts,  like  flame, 
Licked  up  my  memories  of  Pauline, 
Calling  her  vulgar,  plain,  obscene, 
Coarse-fleshed,  a  dull  and  nagging  thing, 
Conquered  only  to  crawl  and  cling. 
Why  do  they  change?  .  .  .  Why  lags  desire? 
Resentment  in  me  like  a  fire 
Roared  on  the  tinsel  of  those  days, 
Consumed  them  all.     I  walked  those  ways 
By  every  leaf  and  stone  again, 
And  every  leaf  was  a  leaf  of  pain, 
And  every  stone  lay  cold  in  me 
Or  fell  through  depths  of  agony. 

—  28  — 


Was  there  in  all  this  wide  world  never 
One  woman  I  might  love  for  ever? 
Or  if  that  miracle  could  not  be, 
One  woman  who  might  tire  of  me 
Before  I  tired,  and  fling  me  by: 
One  woman  lustrous  as  the  sky, 
Girdled  with  stars,  set  round  with  light, 
Whose  heart  was  music,  whose  eyes  were  night? 
Who  moved  like  a  sea  wave  in  the  wind; 
Transfiguring  all  things  when  she  sinned? 
This  was  absurd —  I  laughed  at  this! 
What  woman  would  dare  refuse  my  kiss? 
What  queen,  indeed,  could  tire  of  me?  — 
And  yet,  if  such  a  queen  might  be  ... 
Beautiful,  haughty,  perilous,  wise  .  .  . 
What  rarer  sport,  what  nobler  prize? 
At  this  I  must  have  slept;  for  when 
My  puzzled  eyes  unclosed  again 
The  room  seemed  darker, —  large,  and  strange; 
Even  as  I  looked,  it  seemed  to  change; 
And  as  I  marvelled,  straight  I  heard 
Close  to  my  ears  one  whispered  word  — 
'  Sheba !  ' —  said  once.     And  then  I  saw 
Old  Nick  himself  with  tail  and  claw 
Come  back  again.     Beside  me  there 
He  marvellously  emerged  from  air 
First  horns  and  head,  then  tail  and  limb, 
Upward,  as  one  might  softly  swim 
From  shadowy  depths  .  .  .  One  gleaming  hand, 
Even  before  I  saw  him  stand, 
Still  bodiless,  he  stretched  to  me  ... 
4  So,  Punch,  you've  called  my  name,'  said  he, — 
'  And  here  I  am !  ' —  His  dark  mouth  grinned. 

—  29  — 


Within  those  walls  was  a  tempest  wind. 
The  candle  guttered.     His  glowing  face 
Filled  with  a  ghostly  shine  that  place. 
'  Listen !  '  said  he  ...  and  as  he  spoke 
Those  walls,  no  solider  than  smoke, 
Seemed  slowly  streaming  on  dark  air  ... 
'  There  is  one  woman  wise  and  fair, 
More  marvellous  than  her  you  dream. 
This  is  my  bargain  —  this  my  scheme. 
You  shall  be  borne  through  time  and  space 
To  feed  your  soul  upon  this  face: 
If  you  can  win  her  you  are  free; 
But  if  you  fail, —  you  come  to  me!  ' — 
My  heart  beat  loudly.     '  Done !  '  said  I  ... 
From  all  the  elements  rose  a  cry, 
Water  and  fire  and  wind  and  earth 
Joined  in  a  frenzied  scream  of  mirth. 
Punch  or  the  Devil  —  they  should  see 
Which  was  the  better  man  to  be!  .  .  . 

All  in  the  twinkling  of  his  eye 
I  crossed  blue  seas  of  whistling  sky. 
The  clamor  died  behind  me.     Soon 
By  Sheba's  gate,  under  a  moon, — 
Against  which  palm-trees  black  as  jet 
Fringed  in  a  giant  silhouette, — 
Along  a  path  of  silver  sand 
I  walked,  with  stars  on  either  hand. 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  fountains  spattered, 
Luminous  fishes  flashed  and  scattered, 
Leaving  behind  them  streaks  of  fire 
And  bubbles  of  light.  .  .  .  The  moon  pushed  higher, 
And  through  black  branches,  quick  as  flame, 

—  30  — 


Luminous  parrots  went  and  came, 
And  fiery  feathers  drifted  down  .  .  . 
Lord,  what  a  place  for  me,  a  clown! 
I  skipped  along  that  path;  and  there 
Flew  marvellous  music  on  that  air, — 
Slow  horns  and  cymbals,  and  the  sound 
Of  many  dancers  whirling  round. 
s  And  then  my  heart  stood  still  in  me: 
By  the  flaming  doorway  I  could  see, 
Two  giants,  black  as  stone,  and  tall 
As  pine  trees,  one  by  either  wall. 
Like  fiery  moons  their  eyes  they  rolled; 
They  roared  at  me;  my  brain  went  cold; 
But  in  between  them,  nothing  daunted, 
I  capered  up  those  stairs,  and  flaunted, 
Wagging  the  hump  upon  my  back, 
Into  the  court  .  .  .  Lord,  what  a  pack 
Of  men  and  women  jostled  there! 
Sheba  sat  in  a  golden  chair 
Set  high  upon  a  glittering  throne 
Of  jewelled  and  silvered  ivory-bone. 
A  fan  of  peacocks'  feathers  waved 
Before  her  eyes.     The  floor  was  paved 
With  golden  moons  and  stars  of  blue; 
Vermilion  birds  about  her  flew; 
And  out  of  the  air  dissolving  sweet 
Fell  music  with  persuasive  beat. 
And  then  I  saw  how  one  by  one 
Great  mages  filed  before  that  throne, — 
Upon  their  knees  went  humbly  down 
Scholar  and  prince  with  book  and  crown; 
To  all  she  smiled,  denied  them  all, 
Vainly  before  her  did  they  fall. 

—  31  — 


The  Duke  of  Lorraine  trembled  there; 

King  Solomon,  too,  with  snow-white  hair; 

Herod  the  Great  hung  down  his  head, 

And  Virgil,  pallid  as  the  dead; 

Judas  Iscariot,  dark  of  eye, 

Pulled  at  his  chin  and  shuffled  by  ... 

And  last  of  all  that  host  came  I !  — 

Lord,  how  I  shook!     She  smiled  at  me  .  . 

And  in  her  eyes  as  in  a  sea 

Of  fire  and  darkness  I  went  down: 

In  froth  of  moonlight  seemed  to  drown: 

Whirled  'in  a  wave  of  music,  spun 

In  ravelling  fiery  threads  of  sun! 

Where  was  I?  ...  Was  I  shivering  there? 

A  roar  of  laughter  smote  that  air, 

The  mages  shook  their  sides  with  glee, 

Queens  and  madmen  laughed  at  me. 

Solomon  laid  his  crown  aside 

And  clapped  his  hands:  and  Judas  cried; 

And  Heliogabalus  sobbed  aloud  .  .  . 

White  anger  froze  my  veins.     I  bowed 

Coldly,  to  all  — and  all  fell  still, 

Except  one  laugh  that  trailed  out  shrill 

Then  died  away.     '  Great  queen !  '  I  said  — 

And  paused.     She  leaned  her  golden  head, 

With  one  white  hand  beside  her  ear : 

'  Louder!  '  she  said  — '  I  cannot  hear!  '- 

And  slowly  smiled  —  and  as  she  smiled 

Smaller  and  foolisher  than  a  child 

I  seemed.     I  cleared  my  voice,  and  then  — 

'  Great  queen !  '  began, —  and  once  again 

Forward  she  leaned  and  smiled  at  me, 

In  grave  and  sweet  perplexity, 

—  32  — 


And  raised  one  small  hand,  crystal-clear, 

Once  more  to  touch  her  jewelled  ear. 

And  then,  behind  my  back,  I  heard 

Laughter  subdued,  a  tittered  word, 

A  stir  of  mirth  ...  I  turned  and  glared, — 

Saw  solemn  faces  ill  prepared; 

Saw  twisting  mouth  and  shifting  eye. 

So  Sheba's  deafness  was  a  lie! 

And  quick  as  a  wink  I  turned,  I  climbed 

Those  ivory  steps.     Clear  laughter  chimed, 

Confusion  rose.     Beside  her  throne 

I  leaned,  I  roared  in  a  tempest  tone 

'  Sheba,  my  name  is  Punch!     I  stand 

With  power  of  darkness  in  my  hand, — 

Power  to  shake  your  kingdom  down, 

To  crack  your  heart  and  break  your  crown!  ' 

And  then  as  I  stood  quaking  there, 

Feeding  upon  her  eyes,  her  hair, 

Amazing  drunkenness  waved  in  me: 

I  gallantly  hopped  upon  her  knee, 

I  kissed  her  mouth!  and  straight  arose 

A  clamour  of  cries,  and  silence  froze, 

And  Sheba,  quivering  backward,  weak, 

Tried  once,  and  twice,  and  thrice,  to  speak; 

And  flushed;  and  stared;  and  laughed;  and  then 

Put  up  her  mouth  to  kiss  again!  .  .  . 

At  once  sweet  music  thrilled  the  air ! 
Heliogabalus  tore  his  hair! 
Solomon  raged  and  broke  his  crown, 
Vermilion  birds  flew  singing  down, 
Horns  and  cymbals  stormed  at  the  wall 
And  a  dancing  madness  took  them  all. 

—  33  — 


All  night  they  danced  .  .  .  and  all  night  through 
Vermilion  parrots  clanged  and  flew  .  .  . 
The  walls  were  shaken  with  song  and  glee 
While  Sheba  lay  and  smiled  at  me. 
And  through  her  eyes  I  went  and  came 
Now  like  an  ice-thing,  now  like  flame, 
A  thousand  times  .  .  .  Before  us  waved 
A  peacock  fan  .  .  .  the  floor  was  paved 
With  golden  moons  and  stars  of  blue  .  .  . 
And  dancers  danced  there,  all  night  through. 
And  day  by  day  and  night  by  night 
I  dwelt  there  in  amazed  delight, 
King  of  that  golden  mountain-land 
With  slaves  to  bless  my  least  command. 
Take  this!  fetch  that!   ...  An  old  guitar, 
The  blue  dust  falling  from  a  star, 
Pearls  for  Sheba  or  wine  for  me, 
Or  coral  bleeding  from  the  sea, — 
No  matter  what;  for  quick  as  a  wink 
It  came,  before  I'd  time  to  think. 
How  Sheba  smiled!  and  how  she  laughed! 
And  oh,  what  cups  of  wine  she  quaffed, 
And  how  we  danced  and  how  we  sang, 
And  how  that  glittering  palace  rang 
With  music  under  the  rosy  moon 
Of  horn  and  cymbal  and  bassoon! 
Heliogabalus  was  my  slave, 
And  Judas  nightly  from  his  grave 
Rose  with  a  sheet  about  his  loins 
To  dance  before  us  for  copper  coins, 
Weeping,  weeping  for  his  sins 
To  a  cheerful  tune  from  violins  .  .  . 
Mermaids  came  with  rainbow  fins, 

—  34  — 


Sea-weed-bearded  kings  of  the  sea 

Showered  rich  tribute  there  for  me, — 

Dead  men's  treasure  of  gold  and  stones 

Was  swept  away  before  our  thrones. 

And  once  —  one  evening  —  tired  of  this, 

Yes,  tired  for  once  of  Sheba's  kiss, 

Tired  of  purple  and  gold,  and  cries 

Of  parokeets  with  crimson  eyes, 

Musicians  beating  perpetual  drums 

And  diamonds  brushed  away  like  crumbs, 

Tired  of  this,  with  joy  I  listened 

To  a  mermaid's  voice;  her  blue  eyes  glistened, 

Cold  as  the  sea  were  her  eyes,  and  deep, 

And  walking  like  one  who  walks  in  sleep 

I  went  with  her,  I  followed  her  down 

Great  stairs  of  stone  to  a  royal  town 

With  towers  of  sea-shell  filigree 

By  glow-worms  lit  in  the  gloom  of  the  sea; 

And  amber  walls,  and  streets  of  sand  .  .  . 

The  blue-eyed  mermaid  took  my  hand: 

Silver  dolphins  with  eyes  of  flame 

Snoring  fountains  about  us  came, 

Crabs  whose  backs  were  pearl-encrusted 

And  ancient  turtles  diamond-dusted; 

All  the  dark  kingdom  came  to  rout  us 

And  oh!  what  a  dance  was  danced  about  us!   . 

Until,  at  the  break  of  the  blue  sea-day, 

Up  coral  stairs  I  hurried  away, 

Once  more  to  Sheba,  the  scarlet  queen, 

Who  danced  with  bells  and  a  tambourine, 

Who  poured  black  wine,  and  sang  to  me 

Till  I  forgot  that  queen  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 

—  35  — 


Well,  sirs,  all  things  will  come  to  an  end, — 
Old  Nick,  you  know,  is  no  man's  friend  .  .  . 
How  long  I  stayed,  I  don't  know  now — ; 
But  back  I  came, —  I  don't  know  how, — 
To  go  my  daily  rounds  again 
With  red  birds  darting  through  my  brain  .  .  . 
Yes,  sirs,  there's  many  a  thing  I've  done  — 
I've  had  my  fling,  I've  had  my  fun: 
No  man  or  devil  has  bested  me, — 
Clap  me  in  jail,  I  soon  go  free! 
Even  the  inquisition  came 
And  marked  a  cross  against  my  name, 
And  locked  me  howling  into  a  prison 
Because  I  denied  their  Christ  had  risen! 
But  did  I  stay  there?  .  .  .  Not  a  bit. 
There's  always  a  way  for  nerve  and  wit! 
A  man's  wit  is  a  golden  key 
To  open  the  door  and  set  him  free  .  .  . 
And  Death  —  how  many  times  I've  fought  him!  — 
How  many  lessons  I  have  taught  him! 
The  first  time  —  I  was  in  my  bed: 
Naked  I  fought  him,  cracked  his  head, 
And  drove  him,  moaning,  into  the  street  .  .  . 
Death!     Do  you  think  he's  hard  to  beat? 
Why  once,  when  I  was  young  and  strong, 
I  chased  the  varlet  all  day  long, — 
Up  hill  and  down,  by  vale  and  shore, 
And  into  the  sea!     It  made  me  roar 
To  see  those  lean  shanks  rise  and  fall, 
To  hear  him  rattle  across  a  wall, — 
To  hear  him  crying  aloud  for  breath  .  .  . 
Even  old  Nick  is  worse  than  Death!  .  .  . 
And  want  and  weariness  —  well,  these  too 

—  36  — 


Will  somewhere  lie  in  wait  for  you; 

And  sickness  like  a  black  dog  comes 

To  whine  at  the  table  and  beg  for  crumbs  .  .  . 

Yet  here  you  see  me  —  a  mortal  man : 

And  what  I've  conquered, —  all  men  can! 

.  .  .  A  mortal  man  .  .  .  Though  I'll  not  say 
That  some  time,  after  the  end  of  day, 
You  might  not  see  me,  a  giant  size, 
Hurling  a  shadow  aginst  the  skies  .  .  . 
Blotting  the  stars  ...  at  one  step  taking 
A  hill  or  a  town  ...  the  whole  earth  shaking 
And  I'll  not  say  that  the  time  must  come 
When  Death  will  find  me,  and  leave  me  dumb! 


—  37  — 


WHAT  POLLY  ONCE  CONFESSED 

"  Since  you  insist,  you  fool,  why  then,  I'll  tell  you  .  .  . 
Love  Punch?     Good  Lord!     I  hope  I'm  not  so  silly! 
Red-nosed,  with  hands  like  hams,  humpbacked  and  bandy, — 
And  small  green  rheumy  eyes!     I'd  sooner  love 
The  wildman  that  they  showed  us  in  the  circus! 
Him  with  the  ring  in  his  nose,  and  the  leaves  in  his  hair, 
And  the  long  arms  like  a  gorilla's  always  dragging! 
Love  him!   .  .  .  Don't  make  me  laugh.     I'll  crack  the  mirror. 
But  since  you  insist  (and  I  can  see  you're  hungry 
As  all  men  are,  sooner  or  later,  in  love, 
To  root  among  my  muddy  secrets,  snuffling 
Above  them  with  a  leering  satisfaction) 
Why  then,  I'll  tell  you.     Hate  me  if  you  want  to. 
The  whole  thing  comes  to  one  word  —  jealousy!   .  .  . 
And  I  won't  say  that  as  I  look  back  on  it, 
And  all  that  came  from  it  of  lies  and  hatred, 
I  don't,  sometimes,  feel  fifty  kinds  of  fool  .  .  . 
You've  heard  of   jealousy?     How  wise  you   are! 
Well,  then,  you  know  how  blind  and  cruel  it  is, 
How  like  a  cramp  it  shuts  about  the  heart 
And  turns  the  blood  to  poison,  and  so  sends  it 
Creeping  into  the  brain  for  schemes  of  torture. 
Judy  and  I  were  jealous  —  that's  the  story. 
Why  were  we?     God  knows!  ask  me  something  easy. 
We  do  things,  feel  things,  sometimes,  without  knowing 
The  reason  why.     As  far  as  I  remember 
I  hated  Judy  —  Judy  hated  me. 
At  five  years  old  she  stuck  her  tongue  out  at  me; 

—  38  — 


At  ten  years  old  we  pulled  each  other's  hair; 
At  fifteen  —  well  —  she  stole  my  sweetheart  from  me. 
We  had  a  way  of  smiling  at  each  other  — 
So  innocent  it  seemed,  and  oh  so  sweet!  — 
That  had  the  basilisk  beaten  to  a  frazzle. 
Look,  I  can  do  it  still,  I've  had  such  practice!  — 
We     lowered     our     lids — like    this — ;     and     smiled  —  like 
this!  .  .  . 

So,  we  grew  up.     And  one  fine  day  this  Punch 

Came  roaring  into  town,  with  all  his  stories 

Of  women  weeping  for  him,  dying  for  him, 

And  all  the  rest.     Of  course,  no  one  believed  him  — 

No  one,  that  is,  but  Judy!     We  all  saw 

The  coward  that  he  was, —  a  mouse  for  courage, 

Ran  if  you  raised  your  voice!     But  Judy,  somehow, 

(Though,  to  be  sure,  she  never  was  too  clever) 

Believed  him:  yes,  she  thought  him  so  romantic, 

Oh,   so   unusual!     And   she   lost   no    time 

In  setting  after  him  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  you  know 

What  fools  men  are —  (You're  one  yourself)  — and  Punch 

Was  no  exception,  rather  worse  than  most: 

Crazy  for  love,  went  smirking  around  women 

Tongue  hanging  out,  his  little  eyes  revolving 

In  search  of  titbits  —  fawning,  leering,  sidling; 

And  knowing  this,  of  course,  we  laughed  at  him  .  .  . 

So  Judy  found  him  easy:  though  I  won't  say 

She  didn't  use  the  few  wits  God  had  lent  her. 

Before  he  knew  it,  Punch  had  been  seduced, — 

Trussed  up  and  married  .  .  .  Gone  —  another  hero ! 

Now  for  confession.     And  it's  not  so  easy 
As  kissing  under  aspen  leaves  in  moonlight. 
First,  as  for  Punch,  I  will  confess  I  liked  him  — 

—  39  — 


Well,  more  than  half!     Repulsive,  ugly,  bestial, 
Coward  and  sneak  —  I  knew  him  all  these  things, 
As  who  could  not.     But  still,  there  was  about  him 
When  he  was  young,  as  then  he  was,  some  presence, 
Some  swagger  of  the  flesh,  vivid  and  subtle, 
That  could  not  help  but  make  a  woman's  body 
Tingle  with  secret  pleasure.     There  you  have  it! 
You  see  us  now,  girls,  spinsters,  and  old  women, 
Watching  behind  our  shutters  when  he  passed: 
Shuddering  with  a  pleased  ecstatic  horror 
If  he  should  speak  to  us  or  smile  to  us; 
And  yet,  oh,  hating  him!     Sometimes  I  think 
It's  not  the  saint  we  love  men  for,  but  satyr: 
The  mouth  too  loose  with  constant  lippish  thinking 
Of  fevered  kisses,  and  the  little  eyes 
Malicious   and   provocative  that   smear   you 
With  drivel  of  desire.     It's  true  we  hate  him, 
Yet  hate,  sometimes,  is  not  so  unlike  love: 
We  try  to  scorn  him  out,  to  laugh  him  down, 
Yet  feel  our  features  changing,  under  his, 
To  mirror  him  .  .  .  our  mouths  grow  loose  as  his, 
Corruption  thrills  the  flesh.     Unless  we  shriek 
And  break  the  spell,  we're  one  more  atom  lost 
In  the  terrific  maelstrom  of  the  blood. 
Punch  had  the  satyr's  face,  the  satyr's  body, 
The  twinkle  of  shrewd  eyes,  the  wag  of  the  leg, 
That  stiffens  flesh.     I  hated  him  —  and  liked  him. 
You  see  then  how  I  felt,  when  Judy  came 
And  sighed,  and  smiled,  and  whisperingly  confided 
(All  to  enrage  me!)  how  she'd  caught  her  monster - 
Limed  the  leaves,  led  him  into  the  chamber  .  .  . 
You  see  then  how  I  laughed  and  tweaked  her  ear, 
Patted  her  hand  and  said  'You  clever  Judy!  ' 

—  40  — 


With  furies  in  my  heart:     I  could  have  killed  her  . 
Poor  fool!  she  might  as  well  have  said  in  words 
What  with  her  snaky  smile  she  said  so  plainly  — 
*  I  Ve  beaten  you  at  last !  ' — 

I  smiled,  of  course  , 

But  none  the  less  revenge  was  coiling  in  me 
With  watchful  eyes.     And  while  the  vixen  snickered 
Secretly  there  beside  me,  I  was  thinking 
Already  of  this  satyr,  Punch,  her  husband, 
And  of  her  ruin  through  him.     Give  me  credit! 
Oh,  give  me  credit!     I  am  sometimes  clever. 
I  saw  the  whole  thing  through  from  start  to  finish! 
I  saw  a  moonlit  garden  in  my  mind, 
With  Punch  there,  like  a  satyr,  trampling  lilies, 
Wallowing  among  lilac  leaves,  and  snorting, — 
Or  whining,  rather, —  his  bristly  passion  for  me: 
Lifting  his  great  red  hands  up  in  the  moonlight 
Under  my  window:  or  coming  over  the  wall 
With  one  leg  up,  and  anguish  on  his  face, 
And  the  moon  behind  his  head  —  just  like  a  halo! 
Fantastic  sight!     I  was  already  laughing. 
The  moon  herself  might  well  turn  red  to  see  it. 
And  as  for  Judy  —  I  saw  her  at  her  window 
Waiting  for  Punch,  alone  and  cold  in  the  moonlight, 
With  little  hard-fixed  eyes  distilling  poison  .  .  . 
Rapture!     I  almost  loved  her  at  that  moment. 

"Why  bore  you  with  details?     You  need  no  telling 
How  women  do  such  things.     You  know  me  well, 
Know  all  my  tricks,  know  how  I  laugh  or  twitter, 
Smile  timidly  with  dark  eyes  gleaming  sidelong, 
Let  fall  my  hand, —  as  if  in  carelessness, — 

—  41  — 


Upon  your  arm;  or  lean  one  breast  against  you 

To  whisper  you  some  most  ingenuous  secret! 

H'm!  .  .  .  Magic!  .  .  .  Magic  of  flesh!     You  too  have  felt  it 

And  thrilled  to  it.     You've  heard  it  in  the  evening 

Shaking  a  devilish  music  in  the  darkness 

Of  passionate  thought;  bats  are  abroad  in  gardens; 

The  grass  is  soft  to  lie  on;  and  the  moonlight 

Goes  over  you  like  hands.     Can  flesh  resist  it? 

Poor  foolish  flesh!  pour  wine  for  pigs  and  bears, 

Get  them  so  drunk  they  cannot  stand,  but  squeal 

Lying  upon  their  helpless  backs,  and  blinking 

At  fifteen  suns:  their  drunkenness  is  nothing 

To  the  helpless  lunacy  of  human  flesh 

Tipsy  with  lust.     You've  seen  it  crawl  and  slaver, 

You've  seen  it  dance  its  idiot  dance  in  moonlight 

With  eyes  upturned  so  imbecile  and  wistful: 

And,  oh,  what  caperings!   .  .  .  Well,  then,  for  spite 

And  little  else  (except  what  I've  confessed) 

You  see  me,  in  a  green  gown,  leaning  slowly 

To  play  on  Punch  these  delicate  fleshly  harpings. 

You  see  me  dance  with  him  while  Judy  watches, 

Her  blue  eyes  darting  hatred  among  swift  dancers, 

Following  us,  in  lazy  convolutions, 

Among  the  chords  and  discords  .  .  .  You  can  see 

The  panic  heartbeats  in  those  eyes  of  hers. 

For  all  their  cruelty  .  .  .  The  girl  is  frightened  .  .  . 

She  sees  Punch  smile  at  me  —  in  a  way  she  knows! 

She  sees  the  twitchings  of  his  hand  behind  me  — 

Against  my  flesh !     She  sees  his  eyes  turned  upward 

In  an  ecstatic  misery  all  too  plain  .  .  . 

Oh,  Lord,  those  eyes  of  his!     They  gave  me  nightmares. 

I  almost  spoiled  the  whole  thing  more  than  once, 

By  laughing  in  his  face. 

—  42  — 


"Well  —  there's  the  story. 

A  few  weeks  passed  and  Punch  was  in  my  garden 
Just  as  I  thought  he  would  be;  trampling  lilies, 
Heaving  his  crooked  shoulder  over  the  wall 
Against  the  moon,  wallowing  in  my  lilacs: 
While  Judy  sat  afar  and  waited  for  him. 
Sweet  triumph!     How  I  laughed  and  told  the  neighbours! 
See  the  red  monster  eating  from  my  hand! 
The  wildman  come  from  his  cave,  his  bones  and  berries, 
To  waltz  on  his  hindlegs  in  obedient  circles! 
I  give  him  a  fan  to  hold,  he  snuffs  and  paws  it, 
Goes  home  with  the  perfume  on  him,  passion-draggled, 
Grunts  my  name  in  his  sleep  .  .  .  Too  sweet  a  triumph !  .  .  . 
For  now  poor  foolish  Judy,  struck  with  horror 
Failed  to  come  forward  fighting  —  what  I  hoped  for: 
Instead,  with  one  scared  look,  she  stepped  down  backward 
Into  the  dark.     I  mean,  she  killed  herself. 
Not  out  of  love  for  Punch!     Oh,  no.     I'm  certain. 
But  out  of  broken  pride.     Yes,  simply  that. 
And  left  me  feeling,  somehow,  somewhat  foolish. 

You  see,  then,  how  much  truth  is  in  his  story  — 
You  see  how  much  I  loved  him  .  .  .  There!     I've  told  you 
The  whole  thing  through,  for  you  to  sniff  and  snort  on. 
Isn't  it  pretty?  .  .  .  Romance,  with  all  its  graces! 
Go  on,  be  jealous  now, —  hate  Punch!  hate  me! 
Tear  out  my  heart,  defile  the  sacred  image 
Of     Punch     that's     graven     there!  .  .  .  And     when     you're 
finished  — 

How  do  you  like  the  way  I've  done  my  hair?  " 


—  43  — 


HOW  HE  DIED 

When  Punch  had  roared  at  the  inn  for  days 
The  walls  went  round  in  a  ringing  haze, 
Miriam,  through  the  splendour  seen, 
Twinkled  and  smiled  like  Sheba's  Queen, 
Jake  was  the  devil  himself,  the  host 
Scratched  in  a  book  like  a  solemn  Faust; 
And  the  lights  like  birds  went  swiftly  round 
With  a  soft  and  feathery  whistling  sound. 
He  seized  the  table  with  one  great  hand 
And  a  thousand  people  helped  him  stand, 
"Good-night!  "  a  thousand  voices  said, 
The  words  like  gongs  assailed  his  head, 
And  out  he  reeled,  most  royally, 
Singing,  amid  that  company. — 
Luminous  clocks  above  him  rolled, 
Bells  in  the  darkness  heavily  tolled, 
The  stars  in  the  sky  were  smoothly  beating 
In  a  solemn  chorus,  all  repeating 
The  tick  of  the  great  heart  in  his  breast 
That  tore  his  body,  and  would  not  rest. 

Singing,  he  climbed  the  elusive  street, 
And  heard  far  off  his  footsteps  beat; 
Singing,  they  pushed  him  through  the  door, 
And  he  fell  full  length  on  the  darkened  floor 
But  his  head  struck  sharply  as  he  fell 
And  he  heard  a  sound  like  a  broken  bell; 
And  then,  in  the  half-light  of  the  moon, 

AA 


The  twittering  elvish  light  of  June, 
A  host  of  folk  came  round  him  there, — 
Sheba  with  diamonds  in  her  hair, 
Solomon  thrumming  a  psaltery, 
Judas  Iscariot  dark  of  eye, 
Satan  and  Faustus  and  Lorraine, 
And  Heliogabalus  with  his  train  .  .  . 
The  air  was  sweet  with  a  delicate  sound 
Of  silk  things  rustling  on  the  ground, 
Jewels  and  silver  twinkled,  dim, 
Voices  and  laughter  circled  him  .  .  . 

After  a  while  the  clock  struck  two, 
A  whisper  among  the  audience  flew, 
And  Judy  before  him  came  and  knelt 
And  kissed  him;  and  her  lips,  he  felt, 
Were  wet  with  tears  .  .  .  She  wore  a  crowns 
And  amethysts,  and  a  pale  green  gown  .  .  . 
After  a  while  the  clock  struck  three 
And  Polly  beside  him,  on  one  knee, 
Leaned  above  him  and  softly  cried, 
Wearing  a  white  veil  like  a  bride. 
One  candle  on  the  sill  was  burning, 
And  Faustus  sat  in  the  corner,  turning 
Page  after  page  with  solemn  care 
To  count  the  immortal  heartbeats  there. 
Slow  was  the  heart,  and  quick  the  stroke 
Of  the  pen,  and  never  a  word  he  spoke; 
But  watched  the  tears  of  pale  wax  run 
Down  from  the  long  flame  one  by  one. 
Solomon  in  the  moonlight  bowed, 
The  Queen  of  Sheba  sobbed  aloud; 
Like  a  madonna  carved  in  stone 

—  45  — 


Judy  in  starlight  stood  alone: 

Tears  were  glistening  on  her  cheek, 

Her  lips  were  awry,  she  could  not  speak. 

After  a  while  the  clock  struck  four, 

And  Faustus  said  "  I  can  write  no  more : 

I've  entered  the  heartbeats,  every  one, 

And  now  the  allotted  time  is  done." 

He  dipped  his  pen,  made  one  more  mark, 

And  clapped  his  book.     The  room  grew  dark. 

At  four  o'clock  Punch  turned  his  head 

And  "  I  forgive  you  all,"  he  said.  .  .  . 

At  five  o'clock  they  found  him  dead. 


—  46  — 


PART  II 
MOUNTEBANK  CARVES  HIS  PUPPET  OF  WOOD 


HE  CONCEIVES  HIS  PUPPET  TO  BE  STRUGGLING  WITH 

A  NET 

I 

-*•— - - 

As  evening  fell,  and  Punch  crept  out  of  the  wood 

And  saw  the  valley  before  him  (like  my  life, 

Stretched  out  hefore  me,  waiting  there?  he  thought) 

And  saw  the  sun  go  melting  redly  down 

Behind  bare  oaks,  and  the  long  shadows,  fanlike, 

Whirling  across  the  quiet  fields,  he  pondered 

On  the  simplicity,  the  tranquil  beauty,  even, 

Of  morning,  twilight,  afternoon,  or  noon, — 

So  clear  by  contrast  to  the  nagging  jangle 

Ofjhis  own  days!  .  .  .  Dry  Branches  caught  his  feet, 

The  snapping  of  them  teased  his  brain  to  folly, 

He  clawed  at  cobwebs  that  wiped  across  his  cheek, 

Inwardly  snarled,  was  maddened,  and  once  more  thought, — 

Letting  his  restless  eyes  rove,  seeing  nothing, — 

His  life  was  a  buzzing  fly,  vainly  struggling 

To  loose  weak  wings  from  the  glutinous  web  of  fate. 

was  it  other  men  could  live  so  simply? 
How  was  it  they  could  love,  yet  go  unscathed, 
Walk  freely,  laugh,  and  make  it  all  a  story? 
Or  did  they  lie?  —  The  red  sun  swelled  and  sank, 
A  huge  red  bubble  poised  upon  the  hilltop: 
Vermilion  clouds  flew  over  it  and  faded: 
The  sky,  from  orange,  turned  pale  green,  faint  blue; 
And  the  bare  boughs  of  trees,  flung  up  against  it, 
Frozen  and  still  and  black,  seemed  like  great  claws. 

—  49  — 


II 

Well,  then,  if  others  lied,  he  too  would  lie  ... 
These  faces  of  the  smiling  men  he  knew, 
Baker  and  constable  and  mayor  and  hangman, 
What  did  they  mean?     Were  they,  as  they  pretended, 
Such  gloating  misers  of  illegal  riches?  .  .  . 
As  their  imagined  faces  swam  before  him, 
Ruddy  or  pale,  they  seemed  to  avert  their  eyes, — 
Like  those  who  close  their  windows  to  a  burglar* 
Ah !  that  was  it  —  they  lied.     And  they,  like  him, 
Walked  always  warily,  for  fear  of  nets, 
Ran  hard  in  darkness  when  they  thought  none  saw  them, 
And^in  their  secret  chambers,  wept  for  terror. 
He  laughed  at  this;  because  he  saw  so  clearly 
On  a  dark  moonless  night,  along  the  street, 
Half  frantic,  panting,  with  his  mouth  wide  open, 
The  white-faced  baker  speeding  from  his  shadow. 
Yes,  they  were  liars,  all, —  and  he  would  lie  ... 
Although,  of  course,  some  things  might  be  accomplished  - 
Even  byjiim  .  .  .  even  by  him,  indeed !  — 
He  picked  a  stick  up,  cracked  it  with  his  hands, 
Smiled  at  his  conscious  strength,  pressed  hard  his  feet 
Into  the  withered  grass,  and  heard  life  singing; 
Lights  came  out  of  the  darkened  earth  like  flowers 
And  swam  on  the  lustrous  air  .  .  .  they  were  the  lights 
Of  windows  in  the  village,  candles  behind  them  .  .  . 
And  as  for  women  .  .  .  but  at  the  thought  of  women 
/Tie  thought  of  Judy  only,  pale-haired  Judy  .  .  . 
Judy  with  wide  blue  eyes,  eternal  Judy!  .  .  . 
There  was  a  grave  for  Judy,  and  he  would  dig  it; 
Or  had  he  dug  it, —  was  he  digging  now, 
With  every  thought? — He  paused,  with  step  suspended, 

—  50  — 


In  a  cool  sort  of  horror;  he  seemed  to  feel 

Himself  a  shovel,  used  by  relentless  fate, 

To  dig  that  grave  .  .  .  was  lifted  up  and  thrust, 

Lifted  again  ...  He  shivered  and  then  stepped  forward, 

Seeing  the  face  of  Judy  eddying  down 

On  a  black  coiling  current  into  darkness. 

This  was  a  kind  of  madness,  and  he  forbade  it. 


Ill 


Judy !  —  Lying  beside  her  in  the  moonlight 
He  feigned  a  sleep,  and  turned,  and  through  the  window 
Watched  how  the  crooked  moon  went  slowly  up 
Among  black  elm-boughs,  driving  out  the  stars. 
And  here  was  Judy  sleeping  so  beside  him 
While  fate  in  him,  as  in  a  cup,  mixed  poison. 
Black  thoughts,  like  webs,  he  softly  put  around  her, 
Quietly  back  and  forth.     On  her  white  skin, — 
The  moonlight  touched  one  shoulder,  made  it  dazzle  — 
He  seemed  to  see  these  thoughts,  like  black  webs,  falling, 
Knitting  her  fast  for  death  .  .  .  And  who,  above  her, 
Hung  like  the  bearded  spider  ...  he,  or  fate? 
And  why  was  she  so  marked  for  death  at  all? 
Of  course,  if  he  had  nerve,  as  heroes  should  have, 
He'd  kill  her  now, —  smother  her  with  a  pillow, 
Strangle  her  with  his  hands,  or  cut  her  throat  .  .  . 
But  thinking  this,  his  lips  grew  dry,  his  hands 
Weakened,  his  breath  was  hurried,  he  closed  his  eyes 
To  shut  the  hideous  room  out,  known  too  well, 
And  all  that  went  with  it  ...  himself  and  Judy  .  .  . 
How  would  the  baker  do  it,  or  the  hangman? 
Poison?     He  licked  his  lips  and  poured  it  slowly, 

—  51  — 


Saw  the  green  bubbles  sliding  .  .  .  No,  not  poison  .  .  . 
Judy  would  know,  accuse  him  before  she  died, 
Or  what  was  worse,  stare  at  him,  in  her  writhings, 
With  new-found  horror  .  .  .  Darkness  closed  him  in, 
No  door  of  light  there  was,  he  seemed  imprisoned : 
Chained  and  encircled  .  .  .  He,  himself,  was  helpless. 
All  that  could  help  him  now  was  what  most  bound  him 
Fate  .  .  .  and  fate,  as  always,  seemed  just  grinning. 

The  village  clock  struck  suddenly  into  his  musings  .  .  . 

Twelve  molten  golden  plummets  of  slow  sound 

Plunged  heavily  downward  in  a  void  of  silence, 

Leaving  a  surge  of  air  ...  He  saw  the  tombstones 

Glistening  in  the  moonlight,  ghostly  rows, 

And  felt,  as  it  were,  the  earth  creep  up  about  him  .  .  . 

Was  he  a  shovel  in  the  hands  of  fate, 

Digging  a  grave?     Digging  a  grave  for  Judy? 

Well,  it  was  strange  to  think  that  he  had  loved  her  — 

Perhaps  still  loved  her  —  yet  desired  her  buried ! 

When  she  caressed  him  next,  or  stood  on  tiptoe 

To  prim  her  lips  for  his,  he'd  think  of  this; 

It  would  be  hard,  he  thought,  to  meet  her  eyes  .  .  . 

The  moon,  by  now,  had  climbed  above  the  elm-tree, — 

Swam  freely;  through  black  claws  reached  after  it. 

The  stars  hummed  round  it  still,  though  at  a  distance. 

Would  he  be  ever  as  free  as  the  moon  was,  even? 

After  a  while  he  slept,  and  in  his  sleep 

Dreamed  of  a  grave  that  opened, —  without  shovels. 

IV 

Judy  in  sunlight  combed  her  hair  out  slowly, 
Tossing  her  small  head  backwards.     Now  her  elbows 

—  52  — 


Flashed  in  the  sun;  her  blue  eyes,  in  the  mirror, 

Sought  for  his  eyes,  and  smiled;  the  streaming  hair 

Dazzled  him.     Yet,  desiring  so  to  kill  her, 

And  being  afraid,  his  hatred  only  hardened, 

His  hands,  that  dared  not  hurt  her,  could  not  touch. 

Did  she  perceive  this?     Did  some  whisper  reach  her, 

Chilling  her  blood?     She  smiled,  and  went  on  combing, 

The  smile  died  slowly,  meeting  no  smile  for  answer, 

The     silence    deepened,     prolonged,     seemed     fraught    with 

meanings. 

If  she  could  know  the  dream  he  had  dreamed  last  night, 
Of  an  earthy  grave  that  dug  itself  beneath  her, 
And  swallowed  her  without  sound  —  what  would  she  say? 
Laugh  for  a  moment,  perplexed,  and  hide  her  trouble, — 
Or  think  the  thing  a  trifle?  —  pat  his  cheek, 
Abuse  him,  mockingly,  for  sleeping  treason? 
He  watched  her  elbows  moving,  watched  the  comb 
Gliding  the  golden  length  of  hair,  and  thought 
(First  with  a  start,  but  after  with  composure) 
If  she  could  only  know  one  instant,  clearly, 
How  much  he  hated  her  and  wished  her  dead  — 
Would  she  not  die,  or  —  even  —  kill  herself? 
Just  here,  half  laughing,  Judy  turned  towards  him 
With  something  on  her  lips  to  say:  but  seeing 
A  cold  glare  in  his  eyes  grew  suddenly  grave 
And  cried  "Why,  what's  the  matter? — "     He,  surprised, 
Guilty,  caught  with  a  red  knife  in  his  hands, 
Lowered  his  eyes,  and  laughed  and  said  "  Oh,  nothing!  "; 
And  left  her  staring,  large-eyed,  after  him. 
Even  as  he  left,  his  guilt  had  changed  to  anger. 

Yes,  there  it  was  —  that  everlasting  net 
Falling  upon  his  brain!     He  could  not  move 

—  53  — 


But  it  was  there  before  him,  softly  tangling, 
Meshing  his  hands  and  eyes.     He  hated  Judy, — 
The  more  because  she  now  intruded  on  him, 
Blundered  among  his  poisons  .  .  .  His,  or  fate's? 
He  raged  a  while.     The  sunlight  was  detested. 
Freedom!     Who  had  the  thing?     This  net  came  softly 
On  all  he  thought  and  did;  desires  and  hatreds, 
These  were  the  fevers  of  too-mortal  flesh, 
Insuppressible  flesh.  .  .  .  Why  love?     Why  hate?  .  .  . 
Or  could  one  play,  with  skill,  a  music  on  them?  .  .  . 
No,  not  if  one  was  (as  he  was)  a  coward  .  .  . 
He  walked\>n  grass,  stated  at  the  intricate  blades, 
Saw  all  was  interwoven.     "  So  my  frailties !  " 
He  thought,  "  are  interwoven.     I  am  helpless." 
Yet,  with  a  teasing  half-smile,  he  remembered 
That  though  one  might  not  conquer,  one  might  lie. 


Polly  had  waited  for  him  by  the  brook  — 
Pretending  not  to.     When  she  saw  him  coming 
She  turned  her  back  and  sang  .  .  .  Confound  the  girl ! 
Was  she  avoiding  him,  or  only  teasing? 
He  stood,  half  hesitating,  looking  downward; 
Wondered  if  she  had  seen  him.     His  flesh  quickened, 
The  blood  sang  brawling  melodies  in  his  brain, 
He  thought,  with  lips  apart,  his  chance  had  come 
To  do  as  other  men  did  (if  they  did)  — 
Fling  prudence  to  the  wind  and  take  his  pleasure  .  .  . 
The  blood  sang  ribald  melodies  in  his  brain. 
His  coward  heart  was  hammering  at  his  ribs. 
The  sky  was  blue  and  birds  were  singing  in  it, 

—  54  — 


Polly  was  singing,  sunlight  flashed  on  the  water, 
And  he  alone  seemed  sinister  under  the  sky  .  .  . 
Would  she  resent  his  hump,  make  fun  of  him?  .  .  . 
Desire  was  strong  in  him,  and  he  stepped  downward. 

Polly  (the  witch)  played  devil's  music  on  him; 

Teased  at  the  darker  currents  of  his  blood 

While  seeming  not  to  tease.     She  chattered,  simpered, 

Narrowed  her  black  eyes  on  him  in  dark  questions, 

Plucked  at  her  dress  with  lazy  fingers,  sighed, 

And  when  she  saw  the  half-cowed  tiger  rising 

Behind  his  eyes,  leered  sidelong  at  his  hump 

(She  knew  he  watched)  and  froze  him  to  the  marrow. 

Basking  in  sunlight,  somehow  she  contrived 

To  strip  her  body  bare, —  to  lie  before  him 

In  naked  loveliness:  her  clothes  were  vapour, 

Her  beauty  burned  them  off,  her  flesh  sang  through  them, 

The  white  skin  flashed  before  him  .  .  .  When,  half  frantic, 

With  hearing,  seeing,  feeling  such  clear  music, 

And  blind  with  a  sudden  violence  not  his  own 

He  flushed,  and  caught  her  hand,  and  tried  to  kiss  her, 

She  suddenly  laughed.     "Now,  hunchback,  don't  be  silly!  " 

She  smoothed  her  hair,  looked  at  him  coldly,  frowned, — 

Then  rose  and  walked  away  .  .  .  He  felt  like  crawling. 


VI 


The  throbbing  music  she  so  played  upon  him 
Grew,  in  his  dream,  to  a  beauty  past  all  bearing! 
A  bright  and  baleful  light  in  shafts  from  heaven 
Slanted  upon  a  green  hill;  trees  were  shaken, 
The  leaves  flew  down  upon  it  and  whirled  upon  it 

—  55  — 


As  if  it  were  a  wind;  it  swept  and  thrilled  him. 
There,  as  he  built  a  wall  to  keep  the  sea  out, 
A  mist-white  sea  that  flashed  without  wave  or  sound, 
She  came  before  him  and  lifted  her  hands  and  laughed, 
Naked  and  fair  .  .  .  But  just  as  he  leaned  to  take  her 
Black  webs  like  rain  came  ravelling  out  of  the  sky, 
Fastened  upon  her,  meshed  her,  bound  her  helpless, 
And  whirled  her  away  on  air.     He  woke  in  horror: 
Half  doubting  if  it  were  Polly  after  all  —  ; 
Half  hoping,  half  believing,  it  might  be  Judy. 


VII 


Waking  from  this  his  life  seemed  somehow  changed! 
His  body  was  light;  the  air  semed  singing  about  him, 
Moonlight  roared  through  the  elm-trees  like  a  river, 
The  trees  seemed  ready  to  walk;  even  the  houses 
Seemed  only  to  pause  on  earth  for  a  moment,  ready 
To  tilt  on  the  stellar  air  and  soar  away. 
Bewitched  again!  this  time  by  Polly  Prim. 
He  desired  to  dance,  and  sat  up  straight  in  bed 
With  gnomes  and  elves  cavorting  in  his  brain; 
And  then  he  remembered  how  absurd  he  was, 
And  felt  his  hump,  and  the  stiffness  of  his  legs. 
Well, —  whatever  the  outcome, —  this  was  music, — 
Spring  with  a  million  green  leaves  glistened  in  him: 
His  hate  of  Judy  rose  in  a  smoke  of  laughter  .  .  . 
Whether  she  lived  or  died  he  could  avoid  her  — 
Why  waste  his  thoughts  upon  her?     Love  was  better. 
And  was  it  sure  the  girl  was  laughing  at  him? 
Had  he,  in  fact,  seemed  so  ridiculous? 
One  instant,  he  was  hot  with  a  throbbed  confusion, 

—  56  — 


His  hands  were  tight.     He  heard  her  laughing  coldly, 
Saw  the  clear  devilish  eyes,  and  felt  like  crawling  .  .  . 
With  a  slight  turn  and  shrug,  though,  these  reflections 
Vanished  .  .  .  He  felt  instead  her  cool  skin  touch  him, 
And  saw  himself,  the  next  time  at  the  inn, 
Winking,  slapping  his  knee,  and  confiding  slyly 
To  the  baker  or  the  hangman  how  he,  Punch, 
(Despite  his  ugliness  —  so  all  too  obvious!) 
Had  half  seduced  that  Polly  Prim  already, — 
Boldly  touched  her  knee  with  his  hand,  and  kissed  her,' — 
In  fact,  could  have  the  rest  of  her  for  the  asking!   .  .  . 
Warm  preludes  started  murmurings  in  his  brain. 


VIII 


"  No  doubt  "  (he  thought)  "  this  web  is  still  around  me; 
But  Polly  weaves  it  now,  and  so  it  glistens, 
It  sings  about  me,  I  can  dance  within  it  .  .  .  5: 
He  put  his  hands  out,  thinking  he  might  feel  it 
Shimmering  on  the  air.     If  net  this  was 
It  was  a  pleasant  net,  and  well  worth  having. 
Wherever  it  touched  it  burned  .  .  .  He  walked  within  it, 
Remembering,  with  a  bland  astonishment, 
How  he  had  railed  so,  railed  at  hell  and  heaven, 
For  spreading  snares  for  him.  .  .  .  And  here  was  Polly! 
Polly,  with  sombre  hair, —  and  pale  hands  lifted 
To  play  such  music  on  him!  — Feeling  this, 
(As,  swimming,  one  might  feel  the  cool  of  water 
In  streaks  and  whorls  translucent  flowing  round  him, 
With  a  slight  seethe  of  bubbles,)  he  walked  gaily, 
Forgetting  much.     Blue  days  like  flowers  gigantic 
Opened  above  his  head,  flashed  far  above  him, 

—  57  — 


Were  slowly  closed.     Birds  hung  suspended  in  them, 

Burned  in  the  blue,  revolved,  or  lazily  sailed, 

Glided  away,  were  lost.     Faint  voices  thrilled  him 

Seeming  to  echo  voices  once  familiar 

Now  half -forgotten,  vague,  and  strange  in  meaning  .  .  . 

The  moon  itself, — (blown  like  a  silver  bubble 

In  the  blue  air) —  seemed  but  an  idle  symbol 

Of  time  and  fate,  as  idle.     It  passed  slowly, 

Merged  in  a  foam  of  cloud,  was  softly  lost  .  .  . 

Bound  as  a  victim  in  such  web  of  music, 

Spun  to  his  end  in  skeins  of  sound  like  fire  — 

This  fate  was  sweet!     It  hardly  seemed  like  fate  .  .  . 

Thinking  these  things,  and  always  seeing  Polly 

Dancing  before  him  in  a  clear  depth  of  sunlight 

(Uncaptured  yet  —  he  shivered — )  he  kissed  Judy 

And  touched  her  arm,  and  smiled,  and  never  winced  . 

He  had  forgotten,  now,  his  dream  of  shovels. 


IX 


ic  morning,  meeting  Judy  on  the  stairway, 
He  noticed, —  for  the  first  time, —  something  strange: 
She  eyed  him  palely,  raised  one  hand,  seemed  shrinking 
Faintly  upon  herself  to  let  him  pass  .  .  . 
Some  threat  there  was  in  this  —  he  went  more  slowly, 
Probing  that  look  .  .  .  What  was  the  woman  thinking? 
It  was  as  if,  in  some  way,  death  were  in  her 
And  looked  out  through  her  eyes.     It  was  as  if 
He  had  glanced  in  through  the  open  door  of  a  tomb 
And  seen  cold  shadow  there  .  .  .  Was  Judy  planning 
The  death  which  he  himself,  in  thought,  had  hoped  for? 
Terror  came  down  upon  him,  his  feet  were  heavy, 

—  58  — 


The  sunlight  darkened,  he  suddenly  saw  his  fate 
(That  fate  which  he  himself  had  set  in  motion!) 
Moving  with  sinister  speed,  looming  above  him, 
Roaring  among  his  trees!  — His  hands  fell  weak, 
His  cowardly  eyes  found  nothing  they  could  look  at, 
He  sat  among  withered  leaves  .  .  .  Judy  was  dying! 
Judy  was  killing  herself!     Judy  was  dead! 
The  leaves  flew  round  his  feet,  dust  whirled  among  them, 
The  sun  went  over  the  sky,  and  swelled  and  sank, 
The  hours  were  struck,  all  things  went  on,  resistless, 
And  he  was  whirled  along  with  them  .  .  .  Well,  truly, 
Had  he  desired  her  dead,  or  hinted  at  it?  .  .  . 
Had  he  been  murderous,  even  in  words?  .  .  . 
Had  he  looked  at  her  with  a  look  of  hatred?  .  .  . 
When  he  found  heart  at  length,  and  slowly  limped 
Across  grey  fields,  and  saw  the  house,  it  seemed 
Quietly  changed.     It  seemed  to  keep  a  secret. 
Its  secret  lay  on  the  kitchen  floor,  in  darkness. 
He  held  a  light  above  her,  stared,  was  speechless. 
Judy  had  taken  poison  and  was  dead. 


X 


Polly,  upon  his  anguished  summons,  came 
To  dress  his  Judy,  lay  her  out  in  satin, 
And  spend  the  night.     He  sat,  and  heard  her  moving, 
Moving  to  and  fro  in  the  room  above  him, 
Pulling  the  curtains  down,  opening  drawers: 
Moving,  when  she  remembered  to,  on  tiptoe  .  .  . 
What  was  she  doing,  all  this  time,  up  there?  .  .  . 
He  wished  the  floor  were  glass,  that  he  might  see  her 
And  Judy  lying  there!     He  thought  of  Polly, 

—  59  — 


Living  —  and  Judy,  dead.     This  living  body, 
Turning  there  in  the  presence  of  the  dead, 
Bending  above  it,  touching  it  with  warm  hands, 
Rising  to  move  away,  with  clear  dark  eyes  — 
Its  beauty  dazzled  him;  his  flesh  was  quickened, 
The  blood  sang  teasing  melodies  in  his  brain, 
Provoked  a  silent  cry.     Where  was  he  drifting? 
Where  was  he  —  rather  —  being  swept,  and  helpless? 
A  gesture  of  struggle  passed  like  a  ghost  before  him, 
He  sank  back  weakly,  knowing  his  efforts  useless; 
And  hearing  the  soft  steps  ring  once  more  above  him 
Surrendered  to  their  music.     Flares  of  pain 
Rose  in  his  heart,  but  through  the  pain  that  music 
Steadily  sang  ...  He  knew  himself  most  ugly, 
And  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment  not  to  see  it. 
Red-faced,  lascivious,  hump-backed,  and  a  coward! 
Where  the  strings  pulled,  he  moved.     He  was  a  puppet. 

When  all  was  still —  (still  pond  and  no  more  moving!  — 
The  phrase  flew  into  his  mind  and  laughed  at  him) 
He  went  upstairs  to  bed;  and  the  dread  thing  happened. 
Faint  fragrance  stirred  on  the  quiet  air.     At  first 
He  heard  no  sound.     He  found  his  door  and  opened, 
And  stood  there,  silent.     And  as  he  stood  there,  trembling, 
(Or  was  he  shivering?  for  the  air  was  cool) 
Thinking  how  gross  he  was,  how  red  and  ugly, 
And  wondering  if  he  dared  to  do  this  thing, — 
With  Judy  lying  dead,  there,  in  her  room; 
Or  if  he  had  the  courage;  well,  just  then, 
Polly  came  into  the  hall,  and  smiled  at  him, 
Combing  her  hair  .  .  .  She  combed  her  hair  and  smiled, 
Lazily  smiled,  tilting  her  dark  head  backward, 
Bending  her  smooth  white  arms.     He  stood  transfixed  .  .  , 

—  60  — 


Slow  savage  chords  throbbed  in  his  brain:  his  mouth 

Too  dry  for  speech,  his  feet  too  weak  for  moving  .  .  . 

"What  is  it?  "     Polly  asked.     His  smile  was  foolish. 

He  did  not  know  what  answer  was  intended, — 

Whether  she  knew  what  music  clashed  within  him, 

Pretending  not  to  hear  it  (hearing  perhaps 

The  same  great  cymbals  in  her  own  dark  veins) 

Or  whether,  if  she  knew,  she  only  teased  him, — 

And  hearing  him  confess,  would  feign  a  horror!   .  .  . 

He  was  afraid  ..."  Judy  is  dead  "  (he  thought) 

"  I  am  alone  .  .  ."    he  raised  his  hands  to  his  eyes, 

Pretending  a  wave  of  grief.     Polly,  at  this, 

Came  to  him  quickly,  stood  before  him,  touched  him  .  .  . 

"  Now  don't  be  foolish !  " —  He  looked  up,  saw  her  smile, 

(That  slow  soft  smile  again!     What  did  it  mean?) 

And  as  he  looked  she  took  a  slight  step  backward  .  .  . 

Silence  came  down  upon  them.     He  felt  a  net 

Falling  between  them.     He  desired  to  move,  to  break  it, 

To  touch  her  warm  white  body  that  sang  before  him, 

But  could  not  stir.     If  he  could  lift  his  hand  — 

What  could  prevent  his  touching  her  arms,  her  hair, 

Her  round  white  throat?  .  .  .  Then,  as  the  silence  deepened, 

Smiling  a  little  again,  she  walked  back  slowly, 

Paused  at  her  doorway  —  or  seemed  to  pause  —  one  instant, 

To  gleam  through  narrowed  eyelids  darkly  at  him, — 

And  softly  closed  her  door.  .  .  .  What  did  she  mean?  .  .  . 

Should  he  go  after  her  —  knock  at  the  door?  .  .  . 

The  loud  blood  hammered  and  swelled  against  his  temples, 

Desire  and  fear  confused  him.     He  stood  helpless. 

He  entered  his  room,  sank  wearily  on  his  bed, 

Stared  through  the  window  at  a  night  of  starlight 

And  cursed  his  fate;  and  all  about  was  silence.  .  .  . 

Judy  herself  was  not  more  dead  than  he. 

—  61  — 


XI 


"  Is  this  the  house  where  Judy  lived?  " 

"  Yes  —  long  ago." 

"The  house  where  Judy  lived  and  died?  " 

"Ah!  ...  long  ago."  .  .  . 

He  lay  in  the  dark.     Why  did  this  idiot  jingle 

Keep  running  in  his  head?     What  did  it  mean? 

Had  he  grown  old  already?  —     He  clutched  the  pillow 

And  looked  out  through  the  pale  blue  square  of  window 

Between  black  twisted  branches  at  the  stars. 

Yes.     There  they  were,  just  as  they  were  before, 

Silver  and  blue  and  green  and  twinkling  crimson, 

Yellow  and  white  .  .  .  they  danced  and  laughed  and  trembled, 

Pirouetted  and  sang,  yet  never  moved. 

And  there  was  Judy,  dead,  in  a  darkened  room, 

Never  to  comb  her  hair  again,  or,  laughing 

Run  down  the  stairs,  or  snap  the  stems  of  violets.  .  .  . 

And  here  was  he,  hump-backed  and  red  and  bestial, 

Driving  her  through  his  thoughts ;  and  there  was  Polly 

Sleeping, —  or  lying  awake,  perhaps,  to  smile! 

He  watched  a  thin  bough,  thrust  against  his  window, 

Dipping  upon  the  air  against  the  stars 

As  if  it  caught  them  and  let  them  go  again  .  .  . 

It  was  a  claw.     Fate  itself  was  a  claw. 

His  life  was  full  of  claws.     He  was  a  shovel 

Held  in  such  claws  .  .  .  and  made  to  dig  a  grave, 

A  grave  for  Judy.     And  there  was  Judy  waiting  .  .  . 

Or  was  it  himself  had  died  and  would  be  buried?  .  .  . 

The  earth  piled  up  above  him,  he  could  not  breathe. 

"  Is  this  the  house  where  Judy  lived?  " 
"Yes  — long  ago." 

—  62  — 


"  The  house  where  Judy  lived  and  died?  " 
"Ah!— long  ago." 

XII 

Polly,  he  thought,  was  lying  in  her  room 

Stretched  out  upon  the  white  bed,  straight  and  slender; 

Her  long  dark  hair  spread  out  upon  the  pillow. 

Perhaps  she  lay  awake  still,  gazing  vaguely 

Down  that  white  length,  and  through  the  tall  blue  window 

At  these  same  stars  .  .  .  perhaps  she  turned  her  head 

And  lazily  closed  her  eyes,  to  shut  them  out  .  .  . 

These  thoughts  played  through  his  mind  like  a  melody, — 

Glissandos,  shimmering  downward  from  the  treble 

Sharply  to  crash  among  deep  chords  of  passion  .  .  . 

And  through  these  tones  the  thought  of  Judy  came 

Like  freezing  silence  .  .  .  Judy!   .  .  .  Judy!   .  .  .  Judy!  . 

What  did  the  word  mean?     What  had  it  ever  stood  for?  . 

Judy  lying  alone  in  a  darkened  room, 

Her  eyelids  closed,  her  hands  upon  her  breast! 

If  she  could  rise,  and  live  again, —  he'd  hate  her  .  .  . 

But  dead?  ...  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  in  the  darkness 

That  roiled  his  mind  ran  fast  through  a  wind  of  voices  . 

If  he  had  killed  her  it  had  been  unwitting. 


XIII 


Unravelling  in  his  dream  from  vague  beginnings, 
Like  a  melody  evolved  from  muttered  tunings, 
These  things  grew  strange  in  size.     Against  a  wall 
Quivering  in  a  light's  unsteady  yellow, 
A  shadow  fell;  and  Polly  stood  before  him 
Naked  and  fair.     He  moved  and  caught  and  kissed  her, 

—  63  — 


She  half  averted  her  face,  she  strained  away, 

Delirium  fused  his  veins.     Then  down  the  stairs, 

Bringing  a  sort  of  darkness  as  they  came, 

He  heard  the  steps  of  Judy  ring, —  each  step 

Spreading  a  darkness  and  reverberating. 

Polly  was  gone.     He  trembled,  he  desired  to  hide, 

He  stood  by  the  wall.  .  .  .  When  Judy  came  at  last, 

Standing  before  him  suddenly, —  warm  and  young, — 

He  saw  that  she  was  pregnant;  and  remorse 

Stifled  his  heart.     Ashamed  and  shy  and  awkward 

He  hesitated  towards  her,  touched  her,  kissed  her, 

Said  (what  he  had  not  said  so  long)  "  I  love  you!  " — ; 

Then  leaned  against  the  wall  and  cried  like  a  child. 

She  looked  at  him  surprised, —  and  tenderly, — 

And  slowly  walked  away. 

Later,  his  dream 

(But  after  he  had  waked  and  stared  in  anguish 
At  the  dark  ceiling  above  him,  vaguely  white) 
Brought  him  a  hidden  sound  of  Polly's  laughter, 
The  clear  notes  blown  from  nowhere.     There  he  seemed 
To  run  from  some  one,  some  one  with  a  knife  — 
The  constable? — he  did  not  turn  to  see, 
But  ran;  till  suddenly,  thinking  he  was  safe, 
He  saw  the  man  before  him  in  a  chair 
With   his   back  turned;    and   stabbed   him,   then,   and   killed 

him  .  .  . 
As  the  man  moved  his  head  to  look,  he  woke. 

XIV 

He  walked  in  a  rain  to  see  his  Judy  buried. 
The  sky  was  filled  with  the  slanting  spears  of  rain, 

—  64  — 


Grey  spears  of  rain.     Over  the  tops  of  trees 

Whistled  the  wind-torn  clouds.     The  ruts  were  gleaming, 

Puddles  were  ringed  and  rippled.     At  the  churchyard 

They  found  the  grave  already  dug,  raw  earth 

Heaped  up  beside  it,  pitted  and  dark  with  rain. 

This  was  the  last  injustice!     This  was  monstrous. 

They  lowered  the  coffin  awkwardly  into  the  grave, 

On  the  bare  resonant  boards  that  hid  his  Judy 

The  rain  drummed  monotones,  wet  earth  was  shovelled ; 

And  suddenly,  able  to  bear  the  thing  no  longer, 

He  turned  his  back,  stared  at  the  rain-lashed  grass, 

And  saw  how  cruel  was  life.     The  church-bell  tolled, 

The  tones  were  whirled  away  as  soon  as  struck, 

Tumbled  upon  the  wind,  and  lost  in  rain, 

Or  beaten  down  to  the  ground.     Among  worn  grass-blades 

Rain-bubbles  winked  and  ran  with  delicate  seething, 

Bare  trees  whipped  in  the  wind  .  .  .  the  day  was  madness. 

Dusk  fell.     He  crossed  the  fields  alone.     His  house 

Looked  old  and  cold  and  small  and  time-forgotten. 

"  Is  this  the  house  where  Judy  lived?  " 

"  Yes,—  long  ago.  .  .  ." 

"  The  house  where  Judy  lived  and  died?  " 

"Ah!— long  ago." 

He  thrust  the  door,  stood  in  the  silent  hallway, 
And  heard  no  sound  save  whir  and  splash  of  rain 
And  tick  of  clocks;  alone  and  loud  and  foolish 
In  the  slow  mouldering  and  decay  of  time. 

XV 

Through  the  tall  window,  on  the  brown  curve  of  the  hill, 
He  watched  pale  silvery  arrows  of  rain  descending; 

—  65  — 


Slow  long  arpeggios  thrilled  and  chimed  in  his  heart. 

The  soft  drops  brushed  on  the  window  and  were  muted. 

The  grey-white  sky  above  him  whirled  with  rain. 

"  Well,    then  ...  if    Polly    refused    me  ...  Judy    tricked 

me  .  .  . 

But  did  they  now, —  or  did  I  misinterpret?  .  .  . 
No !     I  should  wrong  myself  if  I  should  think  so  ... 
Have  I  not  half  seduced  the  girl  already? 
Did  I  not  ...  kill  the  other?  "—Thinking  this 
He  seemed  to  feel  that  horrible  net  once  more, 
But  thrust  it  harshly  aside.     "No,  I  am  free: 
No  man  or  law  or  fate  can  change  my  purpose, 
No  god  defeat  my  will !     If,  on  that  hillside, 
Old  Nick  himself,  and  Doctor  Faustus  with  him, 
Should  spread  the  world  before  me,  for  my  soul  — 
Setting  before  me  Venus  with  bright  hair, 
Towers  of  silver,  walls  inlaid  with  sapphires, — 
I  should  refuse.     No  fate  shall  take  my  soul!  .  .  . 
And  where  is  she  so  proud,  who,  to  my  cunning, 
Shall  not  surrender  her  crown,  her  heart,  and  all?  .  .  ." 
He  was  tired,  he  bowed  his  head;  and  in  a  dream 
The  Queen  of  Sheba  smiled  on  a  throne  before  him, 
A  far  faint  clashing  of  music  reached  his  ears, 
A  ghostly  pageant  of  crimson  shimmered  and  smouldered 
And  swayingly  died  away.  .  .  .  And  death  itself 
Went  dwindling  into  the  grey  rain,  only  pausing 
At  the  sky's  edge  to  lift  one  menacing  arm  .  .  . 
Or  was  it  only  a  gaunt  tree,  silhouetted, 
Flinging  a  long  black  branch  out,  one  great  claw?  .  .  . 

The  dark  dream  spread  before  him,  like  a  valley 
Made  strange  with  music.     Birds  flew  upward  from  it; 
Far  down  flashed  moving  lights.     He  closed  his  eyes 

—  66  — 


And  smiled,  and  took  one  step,  and  then  another; 
And  groping  raised  his  hands.  .  .  .  The  air  was  warm. 

This  was  the  valley  of  forgetfulness 

Where  painful  thoughts  and  frustrate  deeds  would  fade 

He  saw  an  orange  moon  rise,  strangely  large, 

Above  soft  trees.     Among  the  unbroken  vineyards 

Maenads  came  out  to  dance,  he  heard  them  singing, 

The  leaves  swished  back  behind  them,  laughter  descended 

This  was  the  valley  of  love  and  lawlessness; 

Where  thirst  was  quenched,  with  no  satiety, 

And  flesh  and  stream  and  tree  were  all  immortal. 

Cymbals  softly  clashed  in  the  moonlit  forest 

Far  down  before  him,  the  undulant  air  was  fragrant 

With  flight  of  ghostly  roses;  out  of  the  silence,  voices 

Rose  faint  and  clear.  .  .  .  He  slowly  descended  the  hill. 


—  67  — 


HE  IMAGINES  THAT  HIS  PUPPET  HAS  A  DARK  DREAM 
AND  HEARS  VOICES 

FIRST  VOICE 

Pave  the  sky  with  stars  for  Punch! 
And  snare  in  flowers  a  moon  for  him 
With  white  rose-trees  and  apple  trees 
And  cherubim  and  seraphim! 

SECOND  VOICE 

Look!  he  comes!  how  tall  he  is! 
A  crown  of  fire  is  on  his  head; 
The  sky  unrolls  before  his  feet, 
Green  mountains  fear  his  tread. 

The  meteors  now  like  dolphins  dive 
Into  the  white  wave  of  the  sky, 
Blue  moons  and  stars  around  him  sing 
And  suns  triumphant  cry! 

THIRD  VOICE 

Build  a  house  of  gold  for  Punch, 
Of  gold  without  and  silk  within, 
With  floors  of  glass,  and  let  there  be 
For  ever  there  a  silver  din 

Of  music's  many  instruments 
In  slow  and  low  amazement  heard: 
In  every  window-niche  a  cage, 
In  every  cage  a  singing-bird. 

—  68  — 


Build  it  in  a  kingdom  far; 
In  a  forest  green  and  deep; 
Where  no  tears  nor  sorrows  are, 
But  only  song  and  sleep. 

There  to  the  noise  of  wind  in  trees 
And  many  rivers  winding  down, 
Let  him  forget  the  cares  of  earth 
And  nod  a  kingly  crown! 

FOURTH  VOICE 

Like  a  tower  of  brass  is  Punch, 
And  great  and  stately  is  his  pace; 
There  is  no  other  as  tall  as  he, — 
None  with  so  fair  a  face. 

Fall  down,  fall  down,  you  kings  of  men, 
Fall  down  before  him!     This  is  he 
For  whom  the  moon  pursues  her  ghost 
And  demons  bend  the  knee. 

Woe  unto  you,  you  miscreants 

Who  dare  the  lightnings  of  his  eyes ! 

His  hand,  how  strong!     His  wrath,  how  just! 

His  brow,  how  white  and  wise! 

FIFTH  VOICE 

Solomon,  clown,  put  by  your  crown, 
And  Judas,  break  your  tree: 
Seal  up  your  tomb  and  burn  your  cross, 
Jesus  of  Galilee! 

—  69  — 


For  here  walks  one  who  makes  you  seem 
But  atoms  that  creep  in  grass; 
You  are  the  pageant  of  his  dream, 
And  he  will  bid  you  pass. 

Let  Rome  go  over  the  earth  in  gold 
With  trumpets  harshly  blown ! 
For  here  comes  one  whose  splendour  burns 
More  gloriously,  alone. 

Heliogabalus,  laugh  your  last! 
Queen  Sappho,  lie  you  down! 
Punch  the  immortal  shakes  the  seas 
And  takes  the  sun  for  crown. 

SIXTH  VOICE 

Sheba,  now  let  down  your  hair, 
And  play  upon  it  with  your  hands, 
While  girls  from  Tal  and  Mozambique 
Parade  before  in  sarabands, — 

Play  him  songs  inaudible 
With  white  hands  braceleted  and  slim, 
Or  shake  your  hair  and  let  it  fall 
And  softly  darken  him. 

Cling  to  him,  while  cymbals  far 
Are  sweetly  smitten  in  the  dusk, 
And  maenads,  under  a  haughty  star, 
Break  the  white  rose  for  its  musk: 

Cling  to  him,  and  with  your  lips 
Feed  his  heart  on  crumbs  of  fire 

—  70  — 


That  shall,  perpetually,  delight, 
But  never  slay  desire! 

SEVENTH  VOICE 

Open  a  window  on  the  world 

With  all  its  sorrow,  and  then 

When  he  has  heard  that  sound  a  space, 

Close  it  fast  again.  .  .  . 

Sweet  will  it  be,  lapped  round  with  ease 

And  music-troubled  air, 

To  hear  for  a  moment  on  the  wind 

A  sound  of  far  despair: 

And  then,  to  turn  to  lights  again, 
And  fingers  soft  on  strings, 
While  Sheba  slips  her  bracelets  off 
And  spreads  her  arms  and  sings.  .  .  . 

Sweet  will  it  be,  to  hear  far  off 
That  gusty  sound  of  pain, 
And  to  remember,  far  away, 
A  world  of  death  and  rain: 

And  then,  to  close  the  window  fast, 
And  laugh,  and  clap  soft  hands, 
While  girls  from  Tal  and  Mozambique 
Parade  in  sarabands.  .  .  . 

Close  now  the  window!     Close  it  well!   . 
That  slow  lament  of  pain 
Was  but  the  dissonance  that  makes 
Dull  music  sweet  again. 

—  71  — 


EIGHTH  VOICE 

Death,  you  will  wear  a  chain  of  gold, 
And  wreaths  of  roses  white  and  red, 
And  nightlong  will  you  dance  for  him 
With  garlands  on  your  head. 

Bring  a  cup  and  pour  him  wine, 
And  dance  for  him;  for  this  is  he 
Who  plays  a  jocund  tune  for  you 
But  will  not  set  you  free. 

Or  go  with  thongs  to  scourge  the  world 
And  lay  it  waste;  and  then  come  back 
To  sorrow  before  him  in  a  cage 
And  garb  yourself  in  black. 

A  cage  of  gold  he  keeps  for  you!  .  .  . 
There  he  will  watch  you  dance, 
And  fill  his  cup,  immortally, 
And  laugh  at  circumstance. 

NINTH  VOICE 

There  is  a  fountain  in  a  wood 
Where  wavering  lies  a  moon: 
It  plays  to  the  slowly  falling  leaves 
A  sleepy  tune. 

.  .  .  The  peach-trees  lean  upon  a  wall 
Of  gold  and  ivory: 

The  peacock  spreads  his  tail,  the  leaves 
Fall  silently.  .  .  . 

—  72  — 


There,  amid  silken  sounds  and  wine 
And  music  idly  broken, 
The  drowsy  god  observes  his  world 
With  no  word  spoken. 

Arcturus,  rise!  Orion,  fall!  .  .  . 
The  white-winged  stars  obey  .  .  . 
Or  else  he  greets  his  Fellow-God; 
And  there,  in  the  dusk,  they  play 

A  game  of  chess  with  stars  for  pawns 
And  a  silver  moon  for  queen: 
Immeasurable  as  clouds  above 
A  chess-board  world  they  lean, 

And  thrust  their  hands  amid  their  beards, 
And  utter  words  profound 
That  shake  the  star-swung  firmament 
With  a  fateful  sound!  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  peach-trees  lean  upon  a  wall 
Of  gold  and  ivory; 

The  peacock  spreads  his  tail;  the  leaves 
Fall  silently.  .  .  . 


—  73  — 


EPILOGUE 


MOUNTEBANK  FEELS  THE  STRINGS  AT  HIS  HEART 

In  the  blue  twilight  the  puller  of  strings,  half-tenderly 

Tumbling  his  puppets  away, —  Punch,  Judy,  and  Polly, — 

Into  the  darkness  again;  Jack  Ketch  and  Faustus, 

Solomon,  crowned  with  a  crown  of  tinsel  and  silver, 

Sheba  with  small  hands  lifted;  Judas  Iscariot 

With  a  noose  of  frayed  thin  silk  about  his  neck, 

And  the  Devil  himself  in  scarlet  with  white  eyes  leering, — 

Tumbling  them  into  their  box,  the  cords  relaxed, 

The    small    world    darkened,    whereupon    they    danced    and 

squeaked, — 

Leaving  them  there  in  the  dusk  pell-mell  together ; 
And  turning  away,  at  last,  to  look  from  a  window 
At  a  darker  and  greater  world,  ring  beyond  ring 
Of  houses  and  trees  and  stars,  sky  upon  sky, 
Space  beyond  silent  space  of  clouds  and  planets: 

Suddenly,  there,  as  he  stood  at  the  darkening  window 
Watching  the  glimmer  of  uncounted  worlds  in  the  twilight, 
A  world  so  vast,  so  piercingly  chorded  with  beauty, 
Blown  and  glowing  in  the  long-drawn  wind  of  time, — 
He  saw  himself, —  though  a  god, —  the  puppet  of  gods ; 
Revolving  in  antics  the  dream  of  a  greater  dreamer; 
Flung  up  from  a  sea  of  chaos  one  futile  instant, 
To  look  on  a  welter  of  water  whirling  with  crimson; 
And  then,  in  an  instant,  drawn  back  once  more  into  chaos. 

.  .  .  Was  it  enough,  to  remember  that  in  that  instant 
He  had  cried  out  in  a  cry  of  rapture  and  anguish?  .  .  . 

—  77  — 


Was  it  enough  to  believe, —  if  he  could  believe  it !  — 

That  the  faint  voice  crying  abruptly  and  strangely  its  anguish 

Was   the   voice  of  himself?  ...  Or   only   the  voice  of  the 

gods?  .  .  . 

Was  he  no  better  than  Judy,  or  Polly, —  or  Punch, 
Capering  about  his  cage  of  twittering  dreams?  .  .  . 

Strange!     As   he   looked   from   the  height   of   the   darkened 

window 

At  the  glimmer  of  immortal  worlds  below  and  above, 
Star  beyond  star,  house  beyond  house, —  soul  beyond  soul?  — 
He  imagined  that  Judy,  there  in  the  box  behind  him, 
Stirred  her  fellows  aside  and  rose  in  the  darkness 
And  quavered  to  him  .  .  .  "Listen!   you  puller  of  strings! 
Do  you  think  it  just  to  call  me  into  existence, — 
To  give  me  a  name, —  and  give  me  so  little  beside?  .  .  . 
To  Polly  you  give  her  laughter,  to  Punch  his  illusions, — 
To  me  you  give  nothing  but  death!  " 

She  wept  after  this, 

Resting  her  small  white  elbows  there  on  the  box-edge, 
And  waited  in  silence.     He,  meanwhile,  not  turning  towards 

her, 

But  resting,  like  her,  his  arms  on  the  sill  of  the  window, 
Watched  the  dark  world. 

"  How  shall  I  answer  you,  Judy?  .  .  . 

It  is  true  you  have  little  but  sorrow  and  death  at  my  hands  — 
It  is  true  you  seem  hardly  a  shadow  for  Polly  and  Punch, — 
And  this  I  regret!     You  step  for  a  moment  from  darkness 
Turning,  bewildered,  your  face  in  a  twinkle  of  lamplight, 
Lift  sharply  your  hand, —  and  vanish  once  more,  and  for  ever. 
But  Judy, —  how  else  could  I  find  you, —  how  even  console 


you? 


—  78  — 


I  too  am  a  puppet.     And  as  you  are  a  symbol-  fcuritntf,  ; 
(As  Punch  is,  and  Sheba  —  bright  symbols  of  intricate  mean 
ings, 

Atoms  of  soul  —  who  move,  and  are  moved  by,  me  — ) 
So  I  am  a  symbol,  a  puppet  drawn  out  upon  strings, 
Helpless,    well-coloured,    with    a    fixed    and    unchanging    ex 
pression 
(As  though  one  said  '  heartache  '  or  *  laughter  ' ! )  of  some  one 

who  leans 

Above  me,  as  I  above  you.  .  .  .  And  even  this  Some  one, — 
Who  knows  what  compulsion  he  suffers,  what  hands  out  of 

darkness 

Play    sharp    chords    upon    him!   .  .  .  Who    kpows    if    those 
hands  are  not  ours!  .  .  . 

"  Look  then  at  my  mind :  this  tiny  old  stage,  dimly  lighted, 
Whereon, —  and  without  my  permission, —  you  symbols  parade, 
Saying  and  meaning  such  things !     You,  now,  with  your  death, 
Crying  out  into  my  heart,  if  for  only  a  moment! 
Punch  with  his  devils  about  him,  his  terror  of  darkness! 
And  Polly  there  laughing  beside  him  —  look  now  how  you 

walk 
On  the  nerve-strings  of  all  I  can  know,  to   delight  me,  to 

torture, 

To  pass  in  a  nightmare  of  gesture  before  me,  how  heedless 
Of  me, —  whom  our  gods  have  ordained  to  exist  as  your  world ! 
Think,  now!     I  can  never  escape  you.     Did  you  call  me  a 

tyrant? 

I  desire  to  change  you  —  and  cannot !   .  .  .  I  desire  to  see  you 
Under  a  pear-tree — (we'll  say  that  the  tree  is  in  blossom — ) 
A  warm  day  of  sunlight,  and  laughing, —  at  nothing  what 
ever!  .  .  . 

A  green  hill's  behind  you;  a  cloud  like  a  dome  tops  the  hill; 

—  79  — 


A  poplars-Fee,,  like  a  vain  girl,  leans  over  a  mirror 
Trying  on  silver,  then  green,  perplexed,  but  in  pleasure; 
And  you  there,  alone  in  the  sunlight,  watch  bees  in  the  pear- 
tree, 

Dipping  the  leaves;  and  you  laugh  —  for  no  reason  whatever! 
Delightful!  One  moment,  at  least,  no  Punch  can  disturb  you, 
No  Polly  whirl  dead  leaves  about  you!  You  stand  there 

untroubled  .  .  . 

Thus,  then,  I  desire  to  see  you,  to  have  you  exist 
If  only  an  instant;  yet  down  come  the  shadows  between  us, 
And  all  they  have  left  me  is  —  Judy,  to  whom  I  have  given 
A  name,  and  so  little  beside!  " 

.  .  .  There  was  silence  a  moment 

And  when  he  turned  back  expecting,  perhaps,  to  see  Judy 
Leaning  her  small  white  elbows  there  on  the  box-edge, — 
No,  not  a  sign.     The  puppets  lay  huddled  together, 
Arms  over  heads,  contorted,  just  where  he  had  dropped  them; 
Inscrutable,  silent,  terrific,  like  those  made  eternal 
Who  stare,  without  thought,  at  a  motionless  world  without 
meaning. 


THE  END 


—  80  — 


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